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VHAT  TO  DO? 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY   THE   CENSUS 
OF  MOSCOW 


BY 


COUNT   LYOF  N.   TOLSTOI 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN 
By  ISABEL   F.   IIAPGOOD 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &   CO. 

13  AsTOR  Place 


PRESERVATION 
COPY  ADDED 
ORIGINAL  TO  BE 
RETAINED 

JAN  3  0  1994 


Copyright,  1887, 
By  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL   &  CO. 


HLBCTROTYPED  AND  PRINTBD 

BY  RAND  AVERY  COMPAIIY, 

BOSTON. 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE. 


Books  which  are  prohibited  by  the  Russian  Censor 
are  not  always  inaccessible.  An  enterprising  publish- 
ing-hoifse  in  Geneva  makes  a  specialty  of  supplying 
the  natural  craving  of  man  for  forbidden  fruit,  under 
which  heading  some  of  Count  L.  N.  Tolstoi's  essays 
belong.  These  essays  circulate  in  Russia  in  manu- 
script ;  and  it  is  from  one  of  these  manuscripts, 
which  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Geneva  firm,  that  the 
first  half  of  the  present  translation  has  been  made. 
It  is  thus  that  the  Censor's  omissions  have  been  noted, 
even  in  cases  where  such  omissions  are  in  no  way 
Indicated  in  the  tw^elfth  volume  of  Count  Tolstoi's 
collected  works,  published  in  Moscow.  As  an  interest- 
ing detail  in  this  connection,  I  may  mention  that  this 
twelfth  volume  contains  all  that  the  censor  allows  of 
*' My  Religion,"  amounting  to  a  very  much  abridged 
scrap  of  Chapter  X.  in  the  last-named  volume  as  known 
to  the  public  outside  of  Russia.  The  last  half  of  the 
present  book  has  not  been  published  by  the  Geneva 
house,  and  omissions  cannot  be  marked. 

ISABEL  F.   HAPGOOD. 
Boston,  Sept.  1, 1887. 


nt:>Ckr:K>f\K 


CONTENTS. 


FAOK 

ARTICLE  ON  THE  CENSUS  IN  MOSCOW  ....  1 
THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  THE  CENSUS  OF  MOS- 
COW       15 

ON  THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART,  169 

ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY 251 

TO  WOMEN 265 


WHAT    TO    DO? 


ARTICLE  ON  THE  CENSUS  IN  MOSCOW. 

[1882.] 

The  object  of  a  census  is  scientific.  A  census  is 
a  sociological  investigation.  And  the  object  of  the 
science  of  sociology  is  the  happiness  of  the  people. 
This  science  and  its  methods  differ  sharply  from  all 
other  sciences. 

Its  peculiarity  lies  in  this,  that  sociological  investi- 
gations are  not  conducted  by  learned  men  in  their 
cabinets,  observatories  and  laboratories,  but  by  two 
thousand  people  from  the  community.  A  second  pe- 
culiarity is  this,  that  the  investigations  of  other  sciences 
are  not  conducted  on  living  people,  but  here  living 
people  are  the  subjects.  A  third  peculiarity  is,  that 
the  aim  of  every  other  science  is  simply  knowledge, 
while  here  it  is  the  good  of  the  people.  One  man 
may  investigate  a  nebula,  but  for  the  investigation  of 
Moscow,  two  thousand  persons  are  necessary.  The 
object  of  the  study  of  nebulae  is  merely  that  we  may 
know  about  nebulae ;  the  object  of  the  study  of  in- 
habitants is  that  sociological  laws  may  be  deduced, 
and  that,  on  the  foundation  of  these  laws,  a  better  life 
for  the  people  may  be  established.  It  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  the  nebula  whether  it  is  studied  or  not,  and  it 

1 


2  ,      WHAT  TO  DOf 

has  waited  long,  and  is  ready  to  wait  a  great  while 
longer ;  but  it  is  not  a  matter  of  indifference  to  the 
inhabitants  of  Moscow,  especially  to  those  unfortunates 
who  constitute  the  most  interesting  subjects  of  the 
science  of  sociology. 

The  census-taker  enters  a  night  lodging-house ;  in 
the  basement  he  finds  a  man  dying  of  hunger,  and  he 
politely  inquires  his  profession,  his  name,  his  native 
place,  the  character  of  his  occupation,  and  after  a  little 
hesitation  as  to  whether  he  is  to  be  entered  in  the  list 
as  alive,  he  writes  him  in  and  goes  his  way. 

And  thus  will  the  two  thousand  young  men  proceed. 
This  is  not  as  it  should  be. 

Science  does  its  work,  and  the  communit}^,  summoned 
in  the  persons  of  these  two  thousand  young  men  to 
aid  science,  must  do  its  work.  A  statistician  drawing 
his  deductions  from  figures  may  feel  indifferent  towards 
people,  but  we  census-takers,  who  see  these  people 
and  who  have  no  scientific  prepossessions,  cannot  con- 
duct ourselves  towards  them  in  an  inhuman  manner. 
Science  fulfils  its  task,  and  its  work  is  for  its  objects 
and  in  the  distant  future,  both  useful  and  necessary  to 
us.  For  men  of  science,  we  can  calmly  say,  that  in 
1882  there  were  so  man3'  beggars,  so  many  prosti- 
tutes, and  so  many  uncared-for  children.  Science  may 
say  this  with  composure  and  with  pride,  because  it 
knows  that  the  confirmation  of  this  fact  conduces  to 
the  elucidation  of  the  laws  of  sociology,  and  that  the 
elucidation  of  the  laws  of  sociology  leads  to  a  better 
constitution  of  society.  But  what  if  we,  the  unscien- 
tific people,  say:  "  You  are  perishing  in  vice,  you  are 
dying  of  hunger,  yon  are  pining  away,  and  killing  each 
other ;  so  do  not  grieve  about  this ;  when  you  shall 
have  all  perished,   and  hundreds  of  thousands  more 


ARTICLE   ON   TUB   CENSUS  IN  MOSCOW.  3 

like  you,  then,  possibly,  science  may  be  able  to  arrange 
everj  thing  in  an  excellent  manner."  For  men  of 
science,  the  census  has  its  interest ;  and  for  us  also, 
it  possesses  an  interest  of  a  wholly  different  signifi- 
cance. The  interest  and  significance  of  the  census 
for  the  community  lie  in  this,  that  it  furnishes  it  with 
a  mirror  into  which,  willy  nilly,  the  whole  community, 
and  each  one  of  us,  gaze. 

The  figures  and  ^deductions  will  be  the  mirror.  It  is 
possible  to  refrain  from  reading  them,  as  it  is  possi- 
ble to  turn  away  from  the  looking-glass.  It  is  possible 
to  glance  cursorily  at  both  figures  and  mirror,  and  it 
is  also  possible  to  scrutinize  them  narrowly.  To  go 
about  in  connection  with  the  census  as  thousands  of 
people  are  now  about  to  do,  is  to  scrutinize  one's  self 
closely  in  the  mirror. 

What  does  this  census,  that  is  about  to  be  made,  mean 
for  us  people  of  Moscow,  who  are  not  men  of  science? 
It  means  two  things.  In  the  first  place,  this,  that  we 
may  learn  with  certainty,  that  among  us  tens  of  thou- 
sands who  live  in  ease,  there  dwell  tens  of  thousands 
of  people  who  lack  bread,  clothing  and  shelter ;  in  the 
second  place,  this,  that  our  brothers  and  sons  will  go 
and  view  this  and  will  calmly  set  down  according  to 
the  schedules,  how  many  have  died  of  hunger  and 
cold. 

And  both  these  things  are  very  bad. 

All  cry  out  upon  the  instability  of  our  social  organi- 
zation, about  the  exceptional  situation,  about  revolu- 
tionary tendencies.  Where  lies  the  root  of  all  this? 
To  what  do  the  revolutionists  point?  To  poverty,  to 
inequality  in  the  distribution  of  wealth.  To  what  do 
the  conservatives  point  ?  To  the  decline  in  moral  prin- 
ciple.    If  the  opinion  of  the  revolutionists  is  correct, 


4  WHAT  TO   DO? 

what  must  be  done?  Poverty  and  the  inequality  of 
wealth  must  be  lessened.  How  is  this  to  be  effected? 
The  rich  must  share  with  the  poor.  If  the  opinion  of 
the  conservatives  is  correct,  that  the  whole  evil  arises 
from  the  decline  in  moral  principle,  what  can  be  more 
immoral  and  vicious  than  the  consciously  indifferent 
survey  of  popular  sufferings,  with  the  sole  object  of 
cataloguing  them?  What  must  be  done?  To  the 
census  we  must  add  the  work  of  affectionate  inter- 
course of  the  idle  and  cultivated  rich,  with  the  op- 
pressed and  unenlightened  poor. 

Science  will  do  its  work,  let  us  perform  ours  also. 
Let  us  do  this.  In  the  first  place,  let  all  of  us  who 
are  occupied  with  the  census,  superintendents  and 
census-takers,  make  it  perfectly  clear  to  ourselves 
what  we  are  to  investigate  and  why.  It  is  the  people, 
and  the  object  is  that  they  may  be  happy.  Whatever 
may  be  one's  view  of  life,  every  one  will  agree  that 
there  is  nothing  more  important  than  human  life,  and 
that  there  is  no  more  weighty  task  than  to  remove  the 
obstacles  to  the  development  of  this  life,  and  to  assist 
it. 

This  idea,  that  the  relations  of  men  to  poverty  are  at 
the  foundation  of  all  popular  suffering,  is  expressed  in 
the  Gospels  with  striking  harshness,  but  at  the  same 
time,  with  decision  and  clearness  for  all. 

"He  who  has  clothed  the  naked,  fed  the  hungry, 
visited  the  prisoner,  that  man  has  clothed  Me,  fed 
Me,  visited  Me,"  that  is,  has  done  the  deed  for  that 
which  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world. 

However  a  man  may  look  upon  things,  every  one 
knows  that  this  is  more  important  than  all  else  on 
earth. 

And  this  must  not  be  forgotten,  and  we  must  not 


ARTICLE  ON   THE   CENSUS  IN  MOSCOW.  5 

permit  any  other  consideration  to  veil  from  us  the  most 
weighty  fact  of  our  existence.  Let  us  inscribe,  and 
reckon,  but  let  us  not  forget  that  if  we  encounter  a 
man  who  is  hungry  and  without  clothes,  it  is  of  more 
moment  to  succor  him  than  to  make  all  possible  in- 
vestigations, than  to  discover  all  possible  sciences. 
Perish  the  whole  census  if  we  may  but  feed  an  old 
woman.  The  census  will  be  longer  and  more  difficult, 
but  we  cannot  pass  by  people  in  the  poorer  quarters 
and  merely  note  them  down  without  taking  any  heed 
of  them  and  without  endeavoring,  according  to  tho 
measure  of  our  strength  and  moral  sensitiveness,  to 
aid  them.  This  in  the  first  place.  In  the  second,  this 
is  what  must  be  done :  All  of  us,  who  are  to  take  part 
in  the  census,  must  refrain  from  irritation  because  we 
are  annoyed ;  let  us  understand  that  this  census  is  very 
useful  for  us ;  that  if  this  is  not  cure,  it  is  at  least  an 
effort  to  study  the  disease,  for  which  we  should  be 
thankful ;  that  we  must  seize  this  occasion,  and,  in  con- 
nection with  it,  we  must  seek  to  recover  our  health,  in 
some  small  degree.  Let  all  of  us,  then,  who  are  con- 
nected with  the  census,  endeavor  to  take  advantage 
of  this  solitary  opportunity  in  ten  years  to  purify 
ourselves  somewhat ;  let  us  not  strive  against,  but 
assist  the  census,  and  assist  it  especially  in  this  sense, 
that  it  may  not  have  merely  the  harsh  character  of  the 
investigation  of  a  hopelessly  sick  person,  but  may  have 
the  character  of  healing  and  restoration  to  health. 
For  the  occasion  is  unique  :  eighty  energetic,  cultivated 
men,  having  under  their  orders  two  thousand  young 
men  of  the  same  stamp,  are  to  make  their  way  over 
the  whole  of  Moscow,  and  not  leave  a  single  man  in 
Moscow  with  whom  they  have  not  entered  into  personal 
relations.     All  the  wonnds  of  society,  the  wounds  of 


6  WHAT  TO  DOf 

poverty,  of  vice,  of  ignorance  —  all  will  be  laid  bare. 
Is  there  not  something  re-assuring  in  this  ?  The  cen- 
sus-takers will  go  about  Moscow,  they  will  set  down 
in  their  lists,  without  distinction,  those  insolent  with 
prosperity,  the  satisfied,  the  calm,  those  who  are  on 
the  way  to  ruin,  and  those  who  are  ruined,  and  the 
curtain  will  fall.  The  census-takers,  our  sons  and 
brothers,  these  young  men  will  behold  all  this.  They 
will  say  :  ''Yes,  our  life  is  very  terrible  and  incurable," 
and  with  this  admission  they  will  live  on  like  the  rest 
of  us,  awaiting  a  remedy  for  the  evil  from  this  or  that 
extraneous  force.  But  those  who  are  perishing  will 
go  on  dying,  in  their  ruin,  and  those  on  the  road  to 
ruin  will  continue  in  their  course.  No,  let  us  rather 
grasp  the  idea  that  science  has  its  task,  and  that  we, 
on  the  occasion  of  this  census,  have  our  task,  and  let 
us  not  allow  the  curtain  once  lifted  to  be  dropped, 
but  let  us  profit  by  the  opportunity  in  order  to  remove 
the  immense  evil  of  the  separation  existing  between  us 
and  the  poor,  and  to  establish  intercourse  and  the 
work  of  redressing  the  evil  of  unhappiness  and  igno- 
rance, and  our  still  -greater  misfortune,  —  the  indiffer- 
ence and  aimlessness  of  our  life. 

I  already  hear  the  customary  remark:  *' All  this  is 
very  fine,  these  are  sounding  phrases ;  but  do  you  tell 
us  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it?  "  Before  I  say  what 
is  to  be  done,  it  is  indispensable  that  I  should  say 
what  is  not  to  be  done.  It  is  indispensable,  first  of 
all,  in  my  opinion,  in  order  that  something  practical 
may  come  of  this  activity,  that  no  society  should  be 
formed,  that  there  should  be  no  publicity,  that  there 
should  be  no  collection  of  money  by  balls,  bazaars  or 
theatres ;  that  there  should  be  no  announcement  that 
Prince  A.  has  contributed  one  thousand  rubles,  and 


ARTICLE   ON   THE   CENSUS  IN  MOSCOW.  7 

the  honorable  citizen  B.  three  thousand ;  that  there 
shall  be  no  collection,  no  calling  to  account,  no  writing 
up,  —  most  of  all,  no  writing  up,  so  that  there  may 
not  be  the  least  shadow  of  any  institution,  either 
governmental  or  philanthropic. 

But  in  my  opinion,  this  is  what  should  be  done  in- 
stantly :  Firstly,  All  those  who  agree  with  me  should 
go  to  the  directors,  and  ask  for  their  shares  the  poorest 
sections,  the  poorest  dwellings ;  and  in  company  with 
the  census- takers,  twent^^-three,  twenty-four  or  twenty- 
five  in  number,  they  should  go  to  these  quarters,  enter 
into  relations  with  the  people  who  are  in  need  of 
assistance,  and  labor  for  them. 

Secondly :  We  should  direct  the  attention  of  the 
superintendents  and  census-takers  to  the  inhabitants 
in  need  of  assistance,  and  work  for  them  personally, 
and  point  them  out  to  those  who  wish  to  work  over 
them.  But  I  am  asked  :  What  do  you  mean  by  work- 
ing over  them?  I  reply  ;  Doing  good  to  people.  The 
words  ''  doing  good  "  are  usually  understood  to  mean, 
giving  money.  But,  in  my  opinion,  doing  good  and 
giving  money  are  not  only  not  the  same  thing,  but 
two  different  and  generally  opposite  things.  Money, 
in  itself,  is  evil.  And  therefore  he  who  gives  money 
gives  evil.  This  error  of  thinking  that  the  giving  of 
money  means  doing  good,  arose  from  the  fact,  that 
generally,  when  a  man  does  good,  he  frees  himself 
from  evil,  and  from  money  among  other  evils.  And 
therefore,  to  give  money  is  only  a  sign  that  a  man  is 
beginning  to  rid  himself  of  evil.  To  do  good,  signifies 
to  do  that  which  is  good  for  man.  But,  in  order  to 
know  what  is  good  for  man,  it  is  necessary  to  be  on 
humane,  i.e.,  on  friendly  terras  with  him.  And  there- 
fore, in  order  to  do  good,  it  is  not  money  that  is  neces- 


8  WHAT  TO  DOt 

sary,  but,  first  of  all,  a  capacity  for  detaching  ourselves, 
for  a  time  at  least,  from  the  conditions  of  our  own 
life.  It  is  necessary  that  we  should  not  be  afraid  to 
soil  our  boots  and  clothing,  that  we  should  not  fear  lice 
and  bedbugs,  that  we  should  not  fear  typhus  fever, 
diphtheria,  and  small-pox.  It  is  necessary  that  we 
should  be  in  a  condition  to  seat  ourselves  by  the  bunk 
of  a  tatterdemalion  and  converse  earnestly  with  him 
in  such  a  manner,  that  he  may  feel  that  the  man  who 
is  talking  with  him  respects  and  loves  him,  and  is  not 
putting  on  airs  and  admiring  himself.  And  in  order 
that  this  may  be  so,  it  is  necessary  that  a  man  should 
find  the  meaning  of  life  outside  himself.  This  is  what 
is  requisite  in  order  that  good  should  be  done,  and  this 
is  what  it  is  difficult  to  find. 

When  the  idea  of  assisting  through  the  medium  of 
the  census  occurred  to  me,  I  discussed  the  matter  with 
divers  of  the  wealthy,  and  I  saw  how  glad  the  rich 
were  of  this  opportunity  of  decently  getting  rid  of 
their  money,  that  extraneous  sin  which  they  cherish 
in  their  hearts.  "Take  three  hundred  —  five  hundred 
rubles,  if  you  like,"  they  said  to  me,  "but  I  cannot 
go  into  those  dens  myself."  There  was  no  lack  of 
money.  Remember  Zaccheus,  the  chief  of  the  publi- 
cans in  the  Gospel.  Remember  how  he,  because  he 
was  small  of  stature,  climbed  into  a  tree  to  see  Christ, 
and  how  when  Christ  announced  that  he  was  going  to 
his  house,  having  understood  but  one  thing,  that  the 
Master  did  not  approve  of  riches,  he  leaped  headlong 
from  the  tree,  ran  home  and  arranged  his  feast.  And 
how,  as  soon  as  Christ  entered,  Zaccheus  instantly 
declared  that  he  gave  the  half  of  his  goods  to  the 
poor,  and  if  he  had  wronged  any  man,  to  him  he 
would  restore  fourfold.     And  remember  how  all  of  us, 


ARTICLE   ON   THE   CENSUS  IN  MOSCOW.  9 

when  we  read  the  Gospel,  set  but  little  store  on  this 
Zaccheus,  and  involuntarily  look  with  scorn  on  this 
half  of  his  goods,  and  fourfold  restitution.  And  our 
feeling  is  correct.  Zaccheus,  according  to  his  lights, 
performed  a  great  deed.  He  had  not  even  begun  to 
do  good.  He  had  only  begun  in  some  small  measure 
to  purify  himself  from  evil,  and  so  Christ  told  him. 
He  merely  said  to  him:  ''To-day  is  salvation  come 
nigh  unto  this  house." 

What  if  the  Moscow  Zaccheuses  were  to  do  the  same 
that  he  did?  Assuredly,  more  than  one  milliard  could 
be  collected.  Well,  and  what  of  that?  Nothing. 
There  would  be  still  greater  sin  if  we  were  to  think  of 
distributing  this  money  among  the  poor.  Money  is 
not  needed.  What  is  needed  is  self-sacrificing  action  ; 
what  is  needed  are  people  who  would  like  to  do  good, 
not  by  giving  extraneous  sin-money,  but  by  giving  their 
own  labor,  themselves,  their  lives.  Where  are  such 
people  to  be  found?  Here  they  are,  walking  about 
Moscow.  They  are  the  student  enumerators.  I  have 
seen  how  they  write  out  their  charts.  The  student 
writes  in  the  night  lodging-house,  b}-  the  bedside  of  a 
sick  man.  ''  What  is  your  disease?  "  —  "  Small-pox." 
And  the  student  does  not  make  a  wry  face,  but  pro- 
ceeds with  his  writing.  And  this  he  does  for  the  sake 
of  some  doubtful  science.  What  would  he  do  if  he 
were  doing  it  for  the  sake  of  his  own  undoubted  good 
and  the  good  of  others? 

When  children,  in  merry  mood,  feel  a  desire  to  laugh, 
they  never  think  of  devising  some  reason  for  laughter, 
but  the}'  laugh  without  any  reason,  because  they  are 
gay ;  and  thus  these  charming  youths  sacrifice  them- 
selves. They  have  not,  as  yet,  contrived  to  devise 
any  means  of  sacrificing  themselves,  but  they  devote 


10  WHAT  TO  not 

their  attention,  their  labor,  their  lives,  in  order  to  write 
out  a  chart,  from  which  something  does  or  does  not 
appear.  What  would  it  be  if  this  labor  were  some- 
thing really  worth  their  while?  There  is  and  there 
always  will  be  labor  of  this  sort,  which  is  worthy  of  the 
devotion  of  a  whole  life,  whatever  the  man's  life  may 
be.  This  labor  is  the  loving  intercourse  of  man  with 
man,  and  the  breakmg-down  of  the  barriers  which 
men  have  erected  between  themselves,  so  that  the 
enjoyment  of  the  rich  man  may  not  be  disturbed  by 
the  wild  howls  of  the  men  who  are  reverting  to  beasts, 
and  by  the  groans  of  helpless  hunger,  cold  and  disease. 

This  census  will  place  before  the  eyes  of  us  well-to- 
do  and  so-called  cultivated  people,  all  the  poverty  and 
oppression  which  is  lurking  in  every  corner  of  Moscow. 
Two  thousand  of  our  brothers,  who  stand  on  the 
highest  rung  of  the  ladder,  will  come  face  to  face  with 
thousands  of  people  who  stand  on  the  lowest  round  of 
society.  Let  us  not  miss  this  opportunity  of  com- 
munion. Let  us,  through  these  two  thousand  men, 
preserve  this  communion,  and  let  us  make  use  of  it  to 
free  ourselves  from  the  aimlessness  and  the  deformity 
of  our  lives,  and  to  free  the  condemned  from  that  in- 
digence and  misery  which  do  not  allow  the  sensitive 
people  in  our  ranks  to  enjoy  our  good  fortune  in  peace. 

This  is  what  I  propose  :  (1)  Thatallour  directors  and 
enumerators  should  join  to  their  business  of  the  census 
a  task  of  assistance,  — of  work  in  the  interest  of  the 
good  of  these  people,  who,  in  our  opuiion,  are  in  need 
of  assistance,  and  with  whom  we  shall  come  in  contact ; 
(2)  That  all  of  us,  directors  and  enumerators,  not  by 
appointment  of  the  committee  of  the  City  Council,  but 
by  the  appointment  of  our  own  hearts,  shall  remain  in 
our  posts,  — that  is,  in  our  relations  to  the  inhabitants 


ARTICLE   ON  THE   CENSUS   IN  MOSCOW.  11 

of  the  town  who  are  in  need  of  assistance,  —  and  that, 
at  the  conchision  of  the  work  of  the  census,  we  shall 
continue  our  work  of  aid.  If  I  have  succeeded  in 
any  degree  in  expressing  what  I  feel,  I  am  sure  that 
the  only  impossibility  will  be  getting  the  directors  and 
enumerators  to  abandon  this,  and  that  others  will  pre- 
sent themselves  in  the  places  of  those  who  leave  ;  (3) 
That  we  should  collect  all  those  inhabitants  of  Moscow, 
who  feel  themselves  fit  to  work  for  the  needy,  into 
sections,  and  begin  our  activity  now,  in  accordance 
with  the  hints  of  the  census-takers  and  directors,  and 
afterwards  carry  it  on  ;  (4)  That  all  who,  on  account 
of  age,  weakness,  or  other  causes,  cannot  give  their 
personal  labor  among  the  needy,  shall  intrust  the  task 
to  their  young,  strong,  and  willing  relatives.  (Good 
consists  not  in  the  giving  of  money,  it  consists  in  the 
loving  intercourse  of  men.     This  alone  is  needed.) 

Whatever  may  be  the  outcome  of  this,  any  thing 
will  be  better  than  the  present  state  of  things. 

Then  let  the  final  act  of  our  enumerators  and  direct- 
ors be  to  distribute  a  hundred  twenty-kopek  pieces  to 
those  who  have  no  food  ;  and  this  will  be  not  a  little, 
not  so  much  because  the  hungry  will  have  food,  but 
because  the  directors  and  enumerators  will  conduct 
themselves  in  a  humane  manner  towards  a  hundred 
poor  people.  How  are  we  to  compute  the  possible 
results  which  will  accrue  to  the  balance  of  public 
morality  from  the  fact  that,  instead  of  the  sentiments 
of  irritation,  anger,  and  envy  which  we  arouse  by 
reckoning  the  hungry,  we  shall  awaken  in  a  hundred 
instances  a  sentiment  of  good,  which  will  be  communi- 
cated to  a  second  and  a  third,  and  an  endless  wave 
which  will  thus  be  set  in  motion  and  flow  between  men  ? 
And  this  is  a  great  deal.    Let  those  of  the  two  thousand 


12  WHAT  TO   DOf 

enumerators  who  have  never  comprehended  this  before, 
come  to  understand  that,  when  going  about  among  tlie 
poor,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  ''This  is  very  interest- 
ing;" that  a  man  should  not  express  himself  with 
regard  to  another  man's  wretchedness  by  interest  only  ; 
and  this  will  be  a  good  thing.  Then  let  assistance  be 
rendered  to  all  those  unfortunates,  of  whom  there  are 
not  so  many  as  I  at  first  supposed  in  Moscow,  who 
can  easily  be  helped  by  money  alone  to  a  great  extent. 
Then  let  those  laborers  who  have  come  to  Moscow  and 
have  eaten  their  very  clothing  from  their  backs,  and  who 
cannot  return  to  the  country,  be  despatched  to  their 
homes  ;  let  the  abandoned  orphans  receive  supervision  ; 
let  feeble  old  men  and  indigent  old  women,  who  sub- 
sist on  the  charity  of  their  companions,  be  released 
from  their  half-famished  and  dying  condition.  (And 
this  is  very  possible.  There  are  not  very  many  of 
them.)  And  this  will  also  be  a  very,  very  great  deal 
accomplished.  But  why  not  think  and  hope  that  more 
and  yet  more  will  be  done?  Why  not  expect  that 
that  real  task  will  be  partially  carried  out,  or  at  least 
begun,  which  is  effected,  not  by  money,  but  by  labor; 
that  weak  drunkards  who  have  lost  their  health,  un- 
lucky thieves,  and  prostitutes  who  are  still  capable  of 
reformation,  should  be  saved?  All  evil  may  not  be 
exterminated,  but  there  will  arise  some  understanding 
of  it,  and  the  contest  with  it  will  not  be  by  police 
methods,  but  by  inward  modes,  —  by  the  brotherly 
intercourse  of  the  men  who  perceive  the  evil,  with  the 
men  who  do  not  perceive  it  because  they  are  a  part  of 
it. 

No  matter  what  may  be  accomplished,  it 'will  be  a 
great  deal.  But  why  not  hope  that  ever}'  thing  will  be 
accomplished?     Why  not  hope  that  we  shall  accomplish 


ARTICLE   ON   THE   CENSUS   IN   MOSCOW  13 

thus  much,  that  there  shall  not  exist  in  Moscow  a 
single  person  in  want  of  clothing,  a  single  hungry 
person,  a  single  human  being  sold  for  money,  nor  a 
single  individual  oppressed  by  the  judgment  of  man, 
who  shall  not  know  that  there  is  fraternal  aid  for  him? 
It  is  not  surprising  that  this  should  not  be  so,  but  it 
is  surprising  that  this  sliould  exist  side  by  side  with 
our  superfluous  leisure  and  wealth,  and  that  we  can 
live  on  composedly,  knowing  that  these  things  are  so. 
Let  us  forget  tliat  in  great  cities  and  in  London,  there 
is  a  proletariat,  and  let  us  not  say  that  so  it  must  needs 
be.  It  need  not  be  thus,  and  it  should  not,  for  this  is 
contrary  to  our  reason  and  our  heart,  and  it  cannot 
be  if  we  are  living  people.  Why  not  hope  that  we 
shall  come  to  understand  that  there  is  not  a  single 
duty  incumbent  upon  us,  not  to  mention  personal  duty, 
for  ourselves,  nor  our  family,  nor  social,  nor  govern- 
mental, nor  scientific,  which  is  more  weighty  than  this? 
Why  not  think  that  we  shall  at  last  come  to  apprehend 
this?  Only  because  to  do  so  would  be  too  great  a 
happiness.  Why  not  hope  that  some  time  people  will 
wake  up,  and  will  comprehend  that  every  thing  else  is 
a  delusion,  but  that  this  is  the  only  work  in  life?  And 
why  should  not  this  "  some  time  "  be  now,  and  in  Mos- 
cow? Why  not  hope  that  the  same  thing  may  happen 
in  society  and  humanity  which  suddenly  takes  place 
in  a  diseased  organism,  when  the  moment  of  conva- 
lescence suddenly  sets  in  ?  The  organism  is  diseased  : 
this  means,  that  the  cells  cease  to  perform  their  myste- 
rious functions ;  some  die,  others  become  infected, 
others  still  remain  in  perfect  condition,  and  work  on 
by  themselves.  But  all  of  a  sudden  the  moment  comes 
when  every  living  cell  enters  upon  an  independent 
and  healthy  activity :    it  crowds  out  the   dead  cells, 


14  WHAT   TO  DO* 

encloses  the  infected  ones  in  a  living  wall,  it  com- 
municates life  to  that  which  was  lifeless  ;  and  the  body 
is  restored,  and  lives  with  new  life. 

Why  should  we  not  think  and  expect  that  the  cells 
of  oui*  society  will  acquire  fresh  life  and  re-invigorate 
the  organism?  We  know  not  in  what  the  power  of 
the  cells  consists,  but  we  do  know  that  our  life  is  in 
our  own  power.  We  can  show  forth  the  light  that  is 
in  us,  or  we  may  extinguish  it. 

Let  one  man  approach  the  Lyapinsky  house  in  the 
dusk,  when  a  thousand  persons,  naked  and  hungry,  are 
waiting  in  the  bitter  cold  for  admission,  and  let  that 
one  man  attempt  to  help,  and  his  heart  will  ache  till 
it  bleeds,  and  he  will  flee  thence  with  despair  and 
anger  against  men  ;  but  let  a  thousand  men  approach 
that  other  thousand  with  a  desire  to  help,  and  the  task 
will  prove  easy  and  delightful.  Let  the  mechanicians 
invent  a  machine  for  lifting  the  weight  that  is  crushing 
us — that  is  a  good  thing;  but  until  they  shall  have 
invented  it,  let  us  bear  down  upon  the  people,  like 
fools,  like  muzliiki^  like  peasants,  like  Christians,  and 
see  whether  we  cannot  raise  them. 

And  now,  brothers,  all  together,  and  away  it  goes ! 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY  THE   CENSUS 
OF  MOSCOW. 

[I884.-1885.J 


And  the  p3ople  asked  him,  saying,  What  shall  we  do  then? 

ile  answereth  aud  saith  unto  them,  He  that  hath  two  coats,  let  him  im- 
part to  hira  that  hath  none ;  and  he  that  hath  meat,  let  him  do  likewise.  — 
Luke  lii.  10,  11. 

Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth,  where  moth  and  rust 
doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  break  through  and  steal : 

But  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven,  where  neither  moth  nor 
rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  do  not  break  through  nor  steal  : 

For  where  your  treasure  is,  there  will  your  heart  be  also. 

The  light  of  the  body  is  the  eye:  if  therefore  thine  eye  be  single,  thy 
whole  body  shall  be  full  of  light. 

But  if  thine  eye  be  evil,  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  of  darkness.  If 
therefore  the  light  that  is  in  thee  be  darkness,  how  great  is  that  darkness! 

No  man  can  serve  two  masters .  for  either  he  will  hate  the  one,  and  love 
the  other;  or  else  he  will  hold  to  the  one,  and  despise  the  other.  Ye  cannot 
serve  God  and  mammon. 

Therefore  I  say  unto  you.  Take  no  thought  for  your  life,  what  ye  shall 
eat,  or  what  ye  shall  drink ;  nor  yet  for  your  body,  what  ye  shall  put  on.  Is 
not  the  life  more  than  meat,  and  the  body  than  raiment?  —  Matt.  vi.  19-25. 

Therefore  take  no  thought,  saying,  What  shall  we  eat?  or,  What  shall 
we  drink?  or,  Wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed? 

(For  after  all  these  things  do  the  Gentiles  seek:)  for  your  heavenly 
Father  knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  all  these  things. 

But  seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  his  righteousness;  and  all  these 
things  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

Take  therefore  no  thought  for  the  morrow :  for  the  morrow  shall  take 
thought  for  the  things  of  itself.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof. 
—  Matt.  vi.  31-34. 

For  it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  a  needle's  eye,  than  for  a  rich 
man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God.  —  Matt.  xix.  24;  Mask  x.  25 ;  Lukb 
xviii.  25. 


I  HAD  lived  all  my  life  out  of  town.  When,  in  1881, 
I  went  to  live  in  Moscow,  the  poverty  of  the  town 
greatly  surprised  me.  I  am  familiar  with  poverty  in 
the  countrj^ ;   but  city  poverty  was  new  and  incom- 

15 


16  WHAT  TO   DO? 

prehensible  to  me.  In  Moscow  it  was  impossible  to 
pass  along  the  street  without  encountering  beggars,  and 
especially  beggars  who^are  unlike  those  in  the  country. 
These  beggars  do  not  go  about  with  their  pouches  in 
the  name  of  Christ,  as  country  beggars  are  accustomed 
to  do,  but  these  beggars  are  without  the  pouch  and 
the  name  of  Christ.  The  Moscow  beggars  carry  no 
pouches,  and  do  not  ask  for  alms.  Generally,  when 
they  meet  or  pass  you,  they  merely  try  to  catch  your 
eye ;  and,  according  to  your  look,  they  beg  or  refrain 
from  it.  I  know  one  such  beggar  who  belongs  to  the 
gentry.  The  old  man  walks  slowly  along,  bending  for- 
ward every  time  he  sets  his  foot  down.  When  he  meets 
you,  he  rests  on  one  foot  and  makes  you  a  kind  of 
salute.  If  you  stop,  he  pulls  off  his  hat  with  its  cock- 
ade, and  bows  and  begs :  if  you  do  not  halt,  he  pre- 
tends that  that  is  merely  his  way  of  walking,  and  he 
passes  on,  inclining  forward  in  like  manner  on  the  other 
foot.  He  is  a  real  Moscow  beggar,  a  cultivated  man. 
At  first  I  did  not  know  why  the  Moscow  beggars  do 
not  ask  alms  directly  ;  afterwards  I  came  to  understand 
why  they  do  not  beg,  but  still  1  did  not  understand  their 
position. 

Once,  as  I  was  passing  through  Afanasievskaya 
Lane,  I  saw  a  policeman  putting  a  ragged  peasant, 
all  swollen  with  dropsy,  into  a  cab.  I  inquired : 
''What  is  that  for?" 

The  policeman  answered  :  "  For  asking  alms." 

"Is  thaf  forbidden?" 

"  Of  course  it  is  forbidden,"  replied  the  policeman. 

The  sufferer  from  dropsy  was  driven  off.  I  took 
another  cab,  and  followed  him.  I  wanted  to  know 
whether  it  was  true  that  begging  alms  was  prohibited 
and  how  it  was  prohibited.     I  could  in  no  wise  under- 


THOUGnTS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      17 

stand  how  one  man  could  be  forbidden  to  ask  alms  of 
any  other  man ;  and  besides,  I  did  not  believe  that  it 
was  prohibited,  when  Moscow  is  full  of  beggars.  I 
went  to  the  station-house  whither  the  beggar  had  been 
taken.  At  a  table  in  the  station-house  sat  a  man  with, 
a  sword  and  a  pistol.     I  inquired  : 

''  For  what  was  this  peasant  arrested?" 

The  man  with  the  sword  and  pistol  gazed  sternly  at 
me,  and  said : 

''  What  business  is  it  of  yours?" 

But  feeling  conscious  that  it  was  necessary  to  offer 
me  some  explanation,  he  added : 

''The  authorities  have  ordered  that  all  such  persons 
are  to  be  arrested  ;  of  course  it  had  to  be  done." 

I  went  out.  The  policeman  who  had  brought  the 
beggar  was  seated  on  the  window-sill  in  the  ante-cham- 
ber, staring  gloomily  at  a  note-book.     I  asked  him  : 

''Is  it  true  that  the  poor  are  forbidden  to  ask  alms 
in  Christ's  name?  " 

The  policeman  came  to  himself,  stared  at  me,  then 
did  not  exactl}'  frown,  but  apparently  fell  into  a  doze 
again,  and  said,  as  he  sat  on  the  window-sill :  — 

'*The  authorities  have  so  ordered,  which  shows  that 
it  is  necessary,"  and  betook  himself  once  more  to  his 
note-book.     I  went  out  on  the  porch,  to  the  cab. 

"Well,  how  did  it  turn  out?  Have  they  arrested 
him?"  asked  the  cabman.  The  man  was  evidently 
interested  in  this  affair  also. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.     The  cabman  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  is  it  forbidden  here  in  Moscow  to  ask  alms 
in  Christ's  name?  "  I  inquired. 

"Who  knows?"   said  the  cabman. 

"  How  is  this?"  said  I,  "  he  is  Christ's  poor,  and  he 
is  taken  to  the  station-house." 


18  WHAT   TO   DOf 

''  A  stop  has  been  put  to  that  now,  it  is  not  allowed," 
said  the  cabdriver. 

On  several  occasions  afterwards,  I  saw  policemen 
conducting  beggars  to  the  station-house,  and  then  to 
the  Yusupoff  house  of  correction.  Once  I  encountered 
on  the  M^^asnitzkaya  a  company  of  these  beggars, 
about  thirty  in  number.  In  front  of  them  and  behind 
them  marched  policemen.  I  inquired :  "What  for?" 
—  ''  For  asking  alms." 

It  turned  out  that  all  these  beggars,  several  of 
whom  you  meet  with  in  every  street  in  Moscow,  and 
who  stand  in  files  near  every  church  during  services, 
and  especially  during  funeral  services,  are  forbidden 
to  ask  alms. 

But  why  are  some  of  them  caught  and  locked  up 
somewhere,  while  others  are  left  alone? 

This  I  could  not  understand.  Either  there  are 
among  them  legal  and  illegal  beggars,  or  there  are  so 
man^^  of  them  that  it  is  impossible  to  apprehend  them 
all ;  or  do  others  assemble  afresh  when  some  are  re- 
moved ? 

There  are  many  varieties  of  beggars  in  Moscow : 
there  are  some  who  live  by  this  profession ;  there  are 
also  genuine  poor  people,  who  have  chanced  upon 
Moscow  in  some  manner  or  other,  and  who  are  really 
in  want. 

Among  these  poor  people,  there  are  many  simple, 
common  peasants,  and  women  in  their  peasant  cos- 
tume. I  often  met  such  people.  Some  of  them  have 
fallen  ill  here,  and  on  leaving  the  hospital  they  can 
neither  support  themselves  here,  nor  get  away  from 
Moscow.  Some  of  them,  moreover,  have  Indulged  in 
dissipation  (such  was  probably  the  case  of  the  dropsi- 
cal man)  ;  some  have  not  been  ill,  but  are  people  who 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      19 

have  been  buret  out  of  their  houses,  or  old  people,  or 
women  with  children  ;  some,  too,  were  perfectly  healthy 
and  able  to  work.  These  perfectly  healthy  peasants 
who  were  engaged  in  begging,  particularly  interested 
me.  These  healthy,  peasant  beggars,  who  were  fit  for 
work,  also  interested  me,  because,  from  the  date  of  my 
arrival  in  Moscow,  I  had  been  in  the  habit  of  goiug  to 
the  Sparrow  Hills  with  two  peasants,  and  sawing  wood 
there  for  the  sake  of  exercise.  These  two  peasants 
were  just  as  poor  as  those  whom  I  encountered  on  the 
streets.  One  was  Piotr,  a  soldier  from  Kaluga  ;  the 
other  Semyon,  a  peasant  from  Vladimir.  They  pos- 
sessed nothing  except  the  wages  of  their  body  and 
hands.  And  with  these  hands  they  earned,  by  dint  of 
very  hard  labor,  from  forty  to  forty-five  kopeks  a 
day,  out  of  which  each  of  them  was  laying  by  savings, 
the  Kaluga  man  for  a  fur  coat,  the  Vladimir  man  in 
order  to  get  enough  to  return  to  his  village.  There- 
fore, on  meeting  precisely  such  men  in  the  streets,  I 
took  an  especial  interest  in  them. 

Why  did  these  men  toil,  while  those  others  begged  ? 

On  encountering  a  peasant  of  this  stamp,  I  usually 
asked  him  how  he  had  come  to  that  situation.  Once 
I  met  a  peasant  with  some  gray  in  his  beard,  but 
healthy.  He  begs.  I  ask  him  who  is  he,  whence 
comes  he?  He  says  that  he  came  from  Kaluga  to 
get  work.  At  first  he  found  employment  chopping  up 
old  wood  for  use  in  stoves.  He  and  his  comrade  fin- 
ished all  the  chopping  which  one  householder  had  ;  then 
they  sought  other  work,  but  found  none ;  his  comrade 
had  parted  from  him,  and  for  two  weeks  he  himself 
had  been  struggling  along ;  he  had  spent  all  his  money, 
he  had  no  saw,  and  no  axe,  and  no  money  to  buy  any 
thing.     I  gave  him  money  for  a  saw,  and  told  him  of  a 


20  WHAT  TO  no? 

place  where  he  could  find  work.  I  had  already  made 
arrangements  with  Piotr  and  Semjon,  that  they  should 
take  an  assistant,  and  they  looked  up  a  mate  for  him. 

"  Sec  that  you  come.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  work 
there." 

*' I  will  come;  why  should  I  not  come?  Do  you 
suppose  I  like  to  beg?     I  can  work." 

The  peasant  declares  that  he  will  come,  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  he  is  not  deceiving  me,  and  that  he  in- 
tends to  come. 

On  the  following  day  I  go  to  my  peasants,  and  in- 
quire whether  that  man  has  arrived.  He  has  not  been 
there  ;  and  in  this  way  several  men  deceived  me.  And 
those  also  deceived  me  who  said  that  they  only  re- 
quired money  for  a  ticket  in  order  to  return  home,  and 
who  chanced  upon  me  again  in  the  street  a  week  later. 
Many  of  these  I  recognized,  and  they  recognized  me, 
and  sometimes,  having  forgotten  me,  they  repeated  the 
same  trick  on  me  ;  and  others,  on  catching  sight  of  me, 
beat  a  retreat.  Thus  I  perceived,  that  in  the  ranks 
of  this  class  also  deceivers  existed.  But  these  cheats 
were  very  pitiable  creatures:  all  of  them  were  but 
half-clad,  poverty-stricken,  gaunt,  sickly  men  ;  they 
were  the  very  people  who  really  freeze  to  death,  or 
hang  themselves,  as  we  learn  from  the  newspapers. 


TnOUGIITS  EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      21 


II. 


When  I  mentioDed  this  poverty  of  the  town  to  in- 
habitants of  the  town,  they  always  said  to  me  :  "  Oh, 
all  that  you  have  seen  is  nothing.  You  ought  to  see 
tiie  Khitroff  market-place,  and  the  lodging-houses  for 
the  night  there.  There  you  would  see  a  regular 
'golden  company.'"^  One  jester  told  me  that  this 
was  no  longer  a  company,  but  a  golden  regiment:  so 
greatly  had  their  numbers  increased.  The  jester  was 
right,  but  he  would  have  been  still  more  accurate  if  he 
had  said  that  these  people  now  form  in  Moscow  neither 
a  company  nor  a  regiment,  but  an  entire  army,  about 
fifty  thousand  in  number,  I  think.  [The  old  inhab- 
itants, when  they  spoke  to  me  about  the  poverty  in 
town,  always  referred  to  it  with  a  certain  satisfaction, 
as  though  pluming  themselves  over  me,  because  they 
knew  it.  I  remember  that  when  I  was  in  London, 
the  old  inhabitants  there  also  rather  boasted  when  they 
spoke  of  the  poverty  of  London.  The  case  is  the  same 
with  us.]  '^ 

And  I  wanted  to  have  a  sight  of  this  poverty  of 
which  I  had  been  told.  Several  times  I  set  out  in  the 
direction  of  the  Khitroff  market-place,  but  on  every 
occasion  I  began  to  feel  uncomfortable  and  ashamed. 

1  The  fine,  tall  members  of  a  regiment,  selected  and  placed  together  to 
form  a  showy  squad. 

2  [  ]  Omitted  by  the  Cc.xxaor  in  the  authorized  edition  printed  in  Russia, 
in  the  set  of  Count  Tolbtoi's  works. 


22  WHAT   TO  DOT 

"  Why  am  I  going  to  gaze  on  the  sufferings  of  people 
whom  1  cannot  help?  "  said  one  voice.  "No,  if  you 
live  here,  and  see  all  the  charms  of  city  life,  go  and 
view  this  also,"  said  another  voice.  In  December 
three  years  ago,  therefore,  on  a  cold  and  windy  day,  I 
betook  myself  to  that  centre  of  poverty,  the  Khitroff 
market-place.  This  was  at  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon of  a  week-day.  As  I  passed  through  the  Sol- 
yanka,  I  already  began  to  see  more  and  more  people  in 
old  garments  which  had  not  originally  belonged  to  them, 
and  in  still  stranger  foot-gear,  people  with  a  peculiar, 
unhealthy  hue  of  countenance,  and  especially  with  a 
singular  indifference  to  every  thing  around  them,  which 
was  peculiar  to  them  all.  A  man  in  the  strangest  of 
all  possible  attire,  which  was  utterly  unlike  any  thing 
else,  walked  along  with  perfect  unconcern,  evidently 
without  a  thought  of  the  appearance  which  he  must 
present  to  the  eyes  of  others.  All  these  people  were 
making  their  way  towards  a  single  point.  Without 
inquiring  the  way,  with  which  I  was  not  acquainted,  I 
followed  them,  and  came  out  on  the  Khitroff  market- 
place. On  the  market-place,  women  both  old  and 
young,  of  the  same  description,  in  tattered  cloaks  and 
jackets  of  various  shapes,  in  ragged  shoes  and  over- 
shoes, and  equally  unconcerned,  notwithstandnig  the 
hideousness  of  their  attire,  sat,  bargained  for  some- 
thing, strolled  about,  and  scolded.  There  were  not 
many  people  in  the  market  itself.  Evidently  market- 
hours  were  over,  and  the  majority  of  the  people  were 
ascending  the  rise  beyond  the  market  and  through  the 
place,  all  still  proceeding  in  one  direction.  I  followed 
them.  The  farther  I  advanced,  the  greater  in  numbers 
were  the  people  of  this  sort  who  flowed  together  on  one 
road.     Passing  through  the  market-place  and  proceed- 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      23 

ing  along  the  street,  I  overtook  two  women  ;  one  was 
old,  the  other  young.  Both  wore  something  ragged 
and  gray.  As  they  walked  they  were  discussing  some 
matter.  After  every  necessary  word,  they  uttered  one 
or  two  unnecessary  ones,  of  the  most  improper  char- 
acter. They  were  not  intoxicated,  but  merely  troubled 
about  something ;  and  neither  the  men  who  met  them, 
nor  those  who  walked  in  front  of  them  and  behind 
them,  paid  any  attention  to  the  language  which  was  so 
strange  to  me.  In  these  quarters,  evidently,  people 
always  talked  so.  Ascending  the  rise,  we  reached  a 
large  house  on  a  corner.  The  greater  part  of  the 
people  who  were  walking  along  with  me  halted  at  this 
house.  They  stood  all  over  the  sidewalk  of  this  house, 
and  sat  on  the  curbstone,  and  even  the  snow  in  the 
street  was  thronged  with  the  same  kmd  of  people.  On 
the  right  side  of  the  entrance  door  were  the  women, 
on  the  left  the  men.  I  walked  past  the  women,  past 
the  men  (there  were  several  hundred  of  them  in  all) 
and  halted  where  the  line  came  to  an  end.  The  house 
before  which  these  people  were  waiting  was  the  Lya- 
pinsky  free  lodging-house  for  the  night.  The  throng 
of  people  consisted  of  night  lodgers,  who  were  waiting 
to  be  let  in.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the 
house  is  opened,  and  the  people  permitted  to  enter. 
Hither  had  come  nearly  all  the  people  whom  I  had 
passed  on  ray  way. 

I  halted  where  the  line  of  men  ended.  Those  near- 
est me  began  to  stare  at  me,  and  attracted  my  attention 
to  them  by  their  glances.  The  fragments  of  garments 
which  covered  these  bodies  were  of  the  most  varied 
soils.  But  the  expression  of  all  the  glances  directed 
towards  me  by  these  people  was  identical.  In  all  eyes 
the  question  was  expressed:  "Why  have  you,  a  man 


24  WHAT   TO  DO? 

from  another  world,  halted  here  beside  us?  Who  are 
you  ?  Are  you  a  self-satisfied  rich  man  who  wants  to 
enjo3^  our  wretchedness,  to  get  rid  of  his  ledium,  and 
to  torment  us  still  more  ?  or  are  you  that  thing  which 
does  not  and  can  not  exist,  —  a  man  who  pities  us  ?  " 
This  query  was  on  every  face.  You  glance  abont, 
encounter  some  one's  eye,  and  turn  away.  I  wished  to 
talk  with  some  one  of  them,  but  for  a  long  time  I  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  it.  But  our  glances  had 
drawn  us  together  already  while  our  tongues  remained 
silent.  Greatly  as  our  lives  had  separated  us,  after  the 
interchange  of*  two  or  three  glances  we  felt  that  we 
were  both  men,  and  we  ceased  to  fear  each  other.  The 
nearest  of  all  to  me  was  a  peasant  with  a  swollen  face 
and  a  red  beard,  in  a  tattered  caftan,  and  patched  over- 
shoes on  his  bare  feet.  And  the  weather  was  eight 
degrees  below  zero.^  For  the  third  or  fourth  time  I  en- 
countered his  eyes,  and  I  felt  so  near  to  him  that  1 
was  no  longer  ashamed  to  accost  him,  but  ashamed  not 
to  say  something  to  him.  I  inquired  where  he  came 
from  ?  He  answered  readily,  and  we  began  to  talk  ; 
others  approached.  He  was  from  Smolensk,  and  had 
come  to  seek  employment  that  he  might  earn  his  bread 
and  taxes.  "There  is  no  work,"  said  he:  "the  sol- 
diers have  taken  it  all  away.  So  now  I  am  loafing 
about ;  as  true  as  I  believe  in  God,  I  have  had  nothing 
to  eat  for  two  days."  He  spoke  modestly,  with  an 
effort  at  a  smile.  A  sbiten  ^-seller,  an  old  soldier,  stood 
near  by.  I  called  him  up.  He  poured  out  his  sbiten. 
The  peasant  took  a  boiling-hot  glassful  in  his  hands, 
and  as  he  tried  before  drinking  not  to  let  any  of  the 
heat  escape  in  vain,  and  warmed  his  hands  over  it,  he 

1  Reaumur. 

2  A  drink  made  of  water,  honey,  and  laurel  or  salvia  leaves,  which  is 
drunk  as  tea,  especially  by  the  poorer  classes. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      25 

related  his  adventures  to  me.  These  adventures,  or 
the  histories  of  them,  are  almost  always  identical :  the 
man  has  been  a  laborer,  then  he  has  changed  his  resi- 
dence, then  his  purse  containing  his  money  and  ticket 
has  been  stolen  from  him  in  the  night  lodging-house ; 
now  it  is  impossible  to  get  away  from  Moscow.  He 
told  me  that  he  kept  himself  warm  by  day  in  the  dram- 
shops ;  that  he  nourished  himself  on  the  bits  of  bread 
in  these  drinking  places,  when  they  were  given  to  him  ; 
and  when  he  was  driven  out  of  them,  he  came  hither 
to  the  Lyapinsky  house  for  a  free  lodging.  He  was 
only  waiting  for  the  police  to  make  their  rounds,  when, 
as  he  had  no  passport,  he  would  be  taken  to  jail,  and 
then  despatched  by  stages  to  his  place  of  settlement. 
''  They  say  that  the  inspection  will  be  made  on  Friday,'* 
said  he,  "  then  they  will  arrest  me.  If  I  can  only  get 
along  until  Friday."  (The  jail,  and  the  journey  by 
stages,  represent  the  Promised  Land  to  him.) 

As  he  told  his  story,  three  men  from  among  the 
throng  corroborated  his  statements,  and  said  that  they 
were  in  the  same  predicament.  A  gaunt,  pale,  long- 
nosed  youth,  with  merely  a  shirt  on  the  upper  portion 
of  his  body,  and  that  torn  on  the  shoulders,  and  a  cap 
without  a  visor,  forced  his  way  sidelong  through  the 
crowd.  He  shivered  violently  and  incessantly,  but 
tried  to  smile  disdainfully  at  the  peasants*  remarks, 
thinking  by  this  means  to  adopt  the  proper  tone  with 
me,  and  he  stared  at  me.  I  offered  him  some  sbiten; 
he  also,  on  taking  the  glass,  warmed  his  hands  over  it ; 
but  no  sooner  had  he  begun  to  speak,  than  he  was  thrust 
aside  by  a  big,  black,  hook-nosed  individual,  in  a  chintz 
shirt  and  waistcoat,  without  a  hat.  The  hook-nosed 
man  asked  for  some  sbiten  also.  Then  came  a  tall  old 
man,  with  a  mass  of  beard,  clad  in  a  great-coat  girded 


26  WHAT   TO   DOf 

with  a  rope,  and  in  bast  shoes,  who  was  drunk.  Then 
a  small  man  with  a  swollen  face  and  tearful  eyes,  in 
a  brown  nankeen  round-jacket,  with  his  bare  knees 
protruding  from  the  holes  in  his  summer  trousers,  and 
knocking  together  with  cold.  He  shivered  so  that  he 
could  not  hold  his  glass,  and  spilled  it  over  himself. 
The  men  began  to  reproach  him.  He  only  smiled  in  a 
woe-begone  way,  and  went  on  shivering.  Then  came  a 
crooked  monster  in  rags,  with  pattens  on  his  bare  feet ; 
then  some  sort  of  an  officer;  then  something  in  the 
ecclesiastical  line ;  then  something  strange  and  nose- 
less, —  all  hungry  and  cold,  beseeching  and  sul^missive, 
thronged  round  me,  and  pressed  close  to  the  sbiten. 
They  drank  up  all  the  sbiten.  One  asked  for  money, 
and  I  gave  it.  Then  another  asked,  then  a  third,  and 
the  whole  crowd  besieged  me.  .  Confusion  and  a  press 
resulted.  The  porter  of  the  adjoining  house  shouted 
to  the  crowd  to  clear  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  house, 
and  the  crowd  submissively  obeyed  his  orders.  Some 
managers  stepped  out  of  the  throng,  and  took  me 
under  their  protection,  and  wanted  to  lead  me  forth 
out  of  the  press  ;  but  the  crowd,  which  had  at  first  been 
scattered  over  the  sidewalk,  now  became  disorderly, 
and  hustled  me.  All  stared  at  me  and  begged ;  and 
each  face  was  more  pitiful  and  suffering  and  humble 
than  the  last.  I  distributed  all  that  I  had  with  me. 
I  had  not  much  money,  something  like  twenty  rubles  ; 
and  in  company  with  the  crowd,  J  entered  the  Lyapin- 
sky  lodging-house.  This  house  is  huge.  '  It  consists 
of  four  sections.  In  the  upper  stories  are  the  men's 
quarters ;  in  the  lower,  the  women's.  I  first  entered 
the  women's  place ;  a  vast  room  all  occupied  with 
bunks,  resembling  the  third-class  bunks  on  the  rail- 
way.    These   bunks  were  arranged  in  two  rows,  one 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS  OF  MOSCOW.      27 

above  the  other.  The  women,  strange,  tattered  crea- 
tures, both  old  and  young,  wearing  nothing  over  their 
dresses,  entered  and  took  their  places,  some  below 
and  some  above.  Some  of  the  old  ones  crossed  them- 
selves, and  uttered  a  petition  for  the  founder  of  this 
refuge  ;  some  laughed  and  scolded.  1  went  up-stairs. 
There  the  men  had  installed  themselves  ;  among  them 
I  espied  one  of  those  to  whom  I  had  given  money. 
[On  catching  sight  of  him,  I  all  at  once  felt  terribly 
abashed,  and  I  made  haste  to  leave  the  room.  And 
it  was  with  a  sense  of  absolute  crime  that  I  quitted 
that  house  and  returned  home.  At  home  I  entered 
over  the  carpeted  stairs  into  the  ante-room,  whose  floor 
was  covered  with  cloth ;  and  having  removed  my  fur 
coat,  I  sat  down  to  a  dinner  of  five  courses,  waited  on 
bytwo  lackeys  in  dress-coats,  white  neckties,,  and  white 
gloves. 

Thirty  years  ago  I  witnessed  in  Paris  a  man's  head 
cut  off  by  the  guillotine  in  the  presence  of  thousands 
of  spectators.  I  knew  that  the  man  was  a  horrible 
criminal.  I  was  acquainted  with  all  the  arguments 
which  people  have  been  devising  for  so  many  centu- 
ries, in  order  to  justify  this  sort  of  deed.  I  knew  that 
they  had  done  this  expressly,  deliberately.  But  at  the 
moment  when  head  and  body  were  severed,  and  fell 
into  the  trough,  I  groaned,  and  apprehended,  not  with 
my  mind,  but  with  my  heart  and  my  whole  being,  that 
all  the  arguments  which  I  had  heard  anent  the  death- 
penalty  were  arrant  nonsense ;  that,  no  matter  how 
many  people  might  assemble  in  order  to  perpetrate  a 
murder,  no  matter  what  they  might  call  themselves, 
murder  is  murder,  the  vilest  sin  in  the  world,  and  that 
that  crime  had  been  committed  before  my  very  eyes. 
By  my  presence  and  non-interference,  I  had  lent  my 


28  WHAT  TO  DOt 

approval  to  that  crime,  and  had  taken  part  in  it.  So 
now,  at  the  sight  of  this  hunger,  cold,  and  degradation 
of  thousands  of  persons,  I  understood  not  with  my 
mind,  but  with  my  heart  and  my  whole  being,  that  the 
existence  of  tens  of  thousands  of  such  people  in  Mos- 
cow, while  I  and  other  thousands  dined  on  fillets  and 
sturgeon,  and  covered  my  horses  and  my  floors  with 
cloth  and  rugs,  —  no  matter  what  the  wise  ones  of  this 
world  might  say  to  me  about  its  being  a  necessity,  — 
was  a  crime,  not  perpetrated  a  single  time,  but  one 
which  was  incessantly  being  perpetrated  over  and  over 
again,  and  that  I,  in  my  luxury,  was  not  only  an  acces- 
sory, but  a  direct  accomplice  in  the  matter.  The 
difference  for  me  between  these  two  impressions  was 
this,  that  I  might  have  shouted  to  the  assassins  who 
stood  around  the  guillotine,  and  perpetrated  the  mur- 
der, that  they  were  committing  a  crime,  and  have  tried 
with  all  my  might  to  prevent  the  murder.  But  while 
so  doing  1  should  have  known  that  my  action  would 
not  prevent  the  murder.  But  here  I  might  not  only 
have  given  sbiten  and  the  money  which  I  had  with  me, 
but  the  coat  from  my  back,  and  every  thing  that  was 
in  my  house.  But  this  I  had  not  done  ;  and  therefore 
I  felt,  I  feel,  and  shall  never  cease  to  feel,  myself  an 
accomplice  in  this  constantly  repeated  crime,  so  long, 
as  I  have  superfluous  food  and  any  one  else  has  none 
at  all,  so  long  as  I  have  two  garments  while  any  one 
else  has  not  even  one.]  ^ 

1  [  ]  Omitted  by  the  Censor  from  the  authoilzed  edition  published  in 
Russia  in  the  set  of  Count  Tolstoi's  works.  The  omission  is  indicated 
thus  .  . 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      29 


III. 


That  very  evening,  on  my  return  from  the  Lyapin- 
sk}'  house,  I  related  my  impressions  to  a  friend.  The 
friend,  an  inhabitant  of  the  city,  began  to  tell  me,  not 
without  satisfaction,  that  this  was  the  most  natural 
phenomenon  of  town  life  possible,  that  I  only  saw 
something  extraordinary  in  it  because  of  my  provin- 
cialism, that  it  had  always  been  so,  and  always  would 
be  so,  and  that  such  must  be  and  is  the  inevitable 
condition  of  civilization.  In  London  it  is  even  worse. 
Of  course  there  is  nothing  wrong  about  it,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  be  displeased  with  it.  I  began  to  reply 
to  my  friend,  but  with  so  much  heat  and  ill-temper, 
that  my  wife  ran  in  from  the  adjoining  room  to  inquire 
what  had  happened.  It  appears  that,  without  being 
conscious  of  it  myself,  I  had  been  shouting,  with  tears 
in  my  voice,  and  flourishing  my  hands  at  my  friend. 
I  shouted  :  '"  It's  impossible  to  live  thus,  impossible  to 
live  thus,  impossible  !  "  They  made  me  feel  ashamed 
of  my  unnecessary  warmth  ;  they  told  me  that  I  could 
not  talk  quietly  about  any  thing,  that  I  got  disagree- 
ably excited  ;  and  they  proved  to  me,  especially,  that 
the  existence  of  such  unfortunates  could  not  possibly 
furnish  any  excuse  for  imbittering  the  lives  of  those 
about  me. 

I  felt  that  this  was  perfectly  just,  and  held  my  peace  ; 
but  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  was  conscious  that  I  was 
in  the  right,  and  I  could  not  regain  my  composure. 


80  WHAT  TO  DOf 

And  the  life  of  the  city,  which  had,  even  before  this, 
been  so  strange  and  repellent  to  me,  now  disgusted  me 
to  such  a  degree,  that  all  the  pleasures  of  a  life  of  lux- 
ury, which  had  hitherto  appeared  to  me  as  pleasures, 
become  tortures  to  me.  And  try  as  I  would,  to  dis- 
cover in  my  own  soul  any  justification  whatever  for  our 
life,  I  could  not,  without  irritation,  behold  either  my 
own  or  other  people's  drawing-rooms,  nor  our  tables 
spread  in  true  lordly  style,  nor  our  equipages  and 
horses,  nor  shops,  theatres,  and  assemblies.  I  could 
not  behold  alongside  these  the  hungr3%  cold,  and  down- 
trodden inhabitants  of  the  Lyapinsky  house.  And  I 
could  not  rid  myself  of  the  thought  that  these  two 
thiugs  were  bound  up  together,  that  the  one  arose  from 
the  other.  I  remember,  that,  as  this  feeling  of  my 
own  guilt  presented  itself  to  me  at  the  first  blush,  so  it 
persisted  in  me,  but  to  this  feeling  a  second  was  speed- 
ily added  which  overshadowed  it. 

When  I  mentioned  my  impressions  of  the  Lyapinsky 
house  to  my  nearest  friends  and  acquaintances,  they 
all  gave  me  the  same  answer  as  the  first  friend  at  whom 
I  had  begun  to  shout ;  but,  in  addition  to  this,  they 
expressed  their  approbation  of  my  kindness  of  heart 
and  my  sensibility,  and  gave  me  to  understand  that 
this  sight  had  so  especially  worked  upon  me  because  I, 
Lyof  Nikolaevitch,  was  very  kind  and  good.  And  I 
willingly  believed  this.  And  before  I  had  time  to  look 
about  me,  instead  of  the  feeling  of  self-reproach  and 
regret,  which  I  had  at  first  experienced,  there  came 
a  sense  of  satisfaction  with  my  own  kindliness,  and  a 
desire  to  exhibit  it  to  people. 

"  It  really  must  be,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  that  I  am 
not  especially  responsible  for  this  by  the  luxury  of  my 
life,    but   that   it   is   the   indispensable   conditions   of 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      31 

existence  that  are  to  blame.  In  truth,  a  change  in 
my  mode  of  life  cannot  rectify  the  evil  vvliich  1  have 
seen  :  by  altering  my  manner  of  life,  1  shall  only  make 
m3'self  and  those  about  me  unhappy,  and  the  other 
miseries  will  remain  the  same  as  ever.  And  therefore 
my  problem  lies  not  in  a  change  of  my  own  life,  as  it 
had  first  seemed  to  me,  but  in  aiding,  so  far  as  in  me 
lies,  in  the  amelioration  of  the  situation  of  those  un- 
fortunate beings  who  have  called  forth  mj-  compassion. 
The  whole  point  lies  here,  —  that  I  am  a  very  kind, 
amiable  man,  and  that  I  wish  to  do  good  to  my  neigh- 
bors." And  I  began  to  think  out  a  plan  of  beneficent 
activity,  in  which  I  might  exhibit  my  benevolence.  I 
must  confess,  however,  that  while  devising  this  plan  of 
beneficent  activity,  I  felt  all  the  time,  in  the  depths 
of  my  soul,  that  that  was  not  the  thing  ;  but,  as  often 
happens,  activity  of  judgment  and  imagination  drowned 
that  voice  of  conscience  withm  me.  At  that  juncture, 
the  census  came  up.  This  struck  me  as  a  means  for 
instituting  that  benevolence  in  which  I  proposed  to  ex- 
hibit my  charitable  disposition.  I  knew  of  many  cliar- 
itable  institutions  and  societies  which  were  in  existence 
in  Moscow,  but  all  their  activity  seemed  to  me  both 
wronglj'  directed  and  insignificant  in  comparison  with 
what  I  intended  to  do.  And  I  devised  the  following 
scheme  :  to  arouse  the  sympathy  of  the  wealthy  for  the 
poverty  of  the  city,  to  collect  money,  to  get  people  to- 
gether who  were  desirous  of  assisting  in  this  matter, 
and  to  visit  all  the  refuges  of  poverty  in  company 
with  the  census,  and,  in  addition  to  the  work  of  the 
census,  to  enter  into  communion  with  the  unfortunate, 
to  learn  the  particulars  of  their  necessities,  and  to  assist 
them  with  money,  with  work,  by  sending  them  away 
from  Moscow,  by  placing  their  children  in  school,  and 


32  WHAT   TO  DO? 

the  old  people  in  hospitals  and  asylums.  And  not 
only  that,  I  thought,  but  these  people  who  undertake 
this  can  be  formed  into  a  permanent  society,  which,  by 
dividing  the  quarters  of  Moscow  among  its  members, 
will  be  able  to  see  to  it  that  this  poverty  and  beggary 
shall  not  be  bred  ;  they  will  incessantly  annihilate  it  at 
its  very  inception  ;  then  they  will  fulfil  their  duty,  not 
so  much  by  healing  as  by  a  course  of  hygiene  for  the 
wretchedness  of  the  city.  I  fancied  that  there  would 
be  no  more  simply  needy,  not  to  mention  abjectly 
poor  persons,  in  the  town,  and  that  all  of  us  wealthy 
individuals  would  thereafter  be  able  to  sit  in  our 
drawing-rooms,  and  eat  our  five-course  dinners,  and 
ride  in  our  carriages  to  theatres  and  assemblies,  and  be 
no  longer  annoyed  with  such  sights  as  I  had  seen  at 
the  Lyapinsky  house. 

Having  concocted  this  plan,  I  wrote  an  article  on 
the  subject;  and  before  sending  it  to  the  printer,  I 
went  to  some  acquaintances,  from  whom  I  hoped  for 
sympathy.  I  said  the  same  thing  to  every  one  whom 
I  met  that  day  (and  I  applied  chiefly  to  the  rich), 
and  nearly  the  same  that  I  afterwards  printed  in  my 
memoir ;  I  proposed  to  take  advantage  of  the  census 
to  inquire  into  the  wretchedness  of  Moscow,  and  to 
succor  it,  both  by  deeds  and  money,  and  to  do  it  in 
such  a  manner  that  there  should  be  no  poor  people  in 
Moscow,  and  so  that  we  rich  ones  might  be  able,  with 
a  quiet  conscience,  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  life  to 
which  we  were  accustomed.  All  listened  to  me  atten- 
tively and  seriously,  but  nevertheless  the  same  identi- 
cal thing  happened  with  every  one  of  them  without 
exception.  No  sooner  did  my  hearers  comprehend  the 
question,  than  they  seemed  to  feel  awkward  and 
somewhat  mortified.      They  seemed  to   be  ashamed, 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      33 

and  principally  on  my  account,  because  I  was  talking 
nonsense,  and  nonsense  which  it  was  impossible  to 
openly  characterize  as  such.  Some  external  cause 
appeared  to  compel  my  hearers  to  be  forbearing  with 
this  nonsense  of  mine. 

''Ah,  yes!  of  course.  That  would  be  very  good," 
they  said  to  me.  ''It  is  a  self-understood  thing  that 
it  is  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with  this.  Yes, 
your  idea  is  a  capital  one.  I  have  thought  of  that 
myself,  but  ...  we  are  so  indifferent,  as  a  rule,  that 
you  can  hardly  count  on  much  success.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  am,  of  course,  ready 
to  assist." 

They  all  said  something  of  this  sort  to  me.  They 
all  agreed,  but  agreed,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  not  in  con- 
sequence of  my  convictions,  and  not  in  consequence 
of  their  own  wish,  but  as  the  result  of  some  outward 
cause,  which  did  not  permit  them  not  to  agree.  I  had 
already  noticed  this,  and,  since  not  one  of  them  stated 
the  sum  which  he  was  willing  to  contribute,  I  was 
obliged  to  fix  it  myself,  and  to  ask  :  "  So  I  may  count 
on  you  for  three  hundred,  or  two  hundred,  or  one  hun- 
dred, or  twenty-five  rubles?"  And  not  one  of  them 
gave  me  any  money.  I  mention  this  because,  when  peo- 
ple give  money  for  that  which  they  themselves  desire, 
they  generally  make  haste  to  give  it.  For  a  box  to  see 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  they  will  instantly  place  the  money 
in  your  hand,  to  clinch  the  bargain.  Here,  however, 
out  of  all  those  who  agreed  to  contribute,  and  who  ex- 
pressed their  sympathy,  not  one  of  them  proposed  to 
give  me  the  money  on  the  spot,  but  they  merely  assented 
in  silence  to  the  sum  which  I  suggested.  In  the  last 
house  which  I  visited  on  that  day,  in  the  evening,  I 
accidentally  came  upon  a  large  company.     The  mis- 


84  WHAT  TO  DOf 

tress  of  the  house  had  busied  herself  with  charity  for 
several  years.  Numerous  carriages  stood  at  the  door, 
several  lackeys  in  rich  liveries  were  sitting  in  the  ante- 
chamber. In  the  vast  drawing-room,  around  two 
tables  and  lamps,  sat  ladies  and  young  girls,  in  costly 
garments,  dressing  small  dolls  ;  and  there  were  several 
young  men  there  also,  hovering  about  the  ladies.  The 
dolls  prepared  by  these  ladies  were  to  be  drawn  in  a 
lottery  for  the  poor. 

The  sight  of  this  drawing-room,  and  of  the  people' 
assembled  in  it,  struck  me  very  unpleasantly.  Not  to 
mention  the  fact  that  the  property  of  the  persons  there 
congregated  amounted  to  many  millions,  not  to  mention 
the  fact  that  the  mere  income  from  the  capital  here 
expended  on  dresses,  laces,  bronzes,  brooches,  car- 
riages, horses,  liveries,  and  lacke3's,  was  a  hundred-fold 
greater  than  all  that  these  ladies  could  earn  ;  not  to 
mention  the  outla}^  the  trip  hither  of  all  these  ladies  and 
gentlemen  ;  the  gloves,  linen,  extra  time,  the  candles, 
the  tea,  the  sugar,  and  the  cakes  had  cost  the  hostess 
a  hundred  times  more  than  what  they  were  engaged 
in  making  here.  I  saw  all  this,  and  tl]»erefore  I  could 
understand,  that  precisely  here  I  should  find  no  sym- 
pathy with  my  mission :  but  1  had  come  in  order  to 
make  my  proposition,  and,  diflScult  as  this  was  for  me, 
1  said  what  I  intended.  (I  said  very  nearly  the  same 
thing  that  is  contained  in  my  printed  article.) 

Out  of  all  the  persons  there  present,  one  individual 
offered  me  money,  saying  that  she  did  not  feel  equal 
to  going  among  the  poor  herself  on  account  of  her 
sensibility,  but  that  she  would  give  money  ;  how  much 
money  she  would  give,  and  when,  she  did  not  b^j. 
Another  individual  and  a  young  man  offered  their  ser- 
vices in  going  about  among  the  poor,  but  1  did  not 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS  OF  MOSCOW.      35 

avail  myself  of  their  offer.  The  principal  person  to 
whom  I  appealed,  told  me  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  do  much  because  means  were  lacking.  Means  were 
lacking  because  all  the  rich  people  in  Moscow  were 
already  on  the  lists,  and  all  of  them  were  asked  for  all 
that  they  could  possibly  give ;  because  on  all  these 
benefactors  rank,  medals,  and  other  dignities  were 
bestowed ;  because  in  order  to  secure  financial  suc- 
cess, some  new  dignities  must  be  secured  from  the 
authorities,  and  that  this  was  the  only  practical  means, 
but  this  was  extremely  difficillt. 

On  my  return  home  that  night,  I  lay  down  to  sleep 
not  only  with  a  presentiment  that  my  idea  would  come 
to  nothing,  but  with  shame  and  a  consciousness  that 
all  day  long  1  had  been  engaged  in  a  very  repulsive 
and  disgraceful  business.  But  I  did  not  give  up  this 
undertaking.  In  the  first  place,  the  matter  had  been 
begun,  and  false  shame  would  have  prevented  my 
abandoning  it ;  in  the  second  place,  not  only  the  success 
of  this  scheme,  but  the  very  fact  that  I  was  busying 
myself  with  it,  afforded  me  tfie  possibility  of  continu- 
ing to  live  in  the  conditions  under  which  I  was  then 
living ;  failure  entailed  upon  me  the  necessity  of  re- 
nouncing my  present  existence  and  of  seeking  new 
paths  of  life.  And  this  1  unconsciously  dreaded,  and 
I  could  not  believe  the  inward  voice,  and  I  went  on 
with  what  I  had  begun. 

Having  sent  my  article  to  the  printer,  I  read  the 
proof  of  it  to  the  City  Council  (Dum).  I  read  it, 
stumbling,  and  blushing  even  to  tears,  I  felt  so  awk- 
ward. And  I  saw  that  it  was  equally  awkward  for  all 
my  hearers.  In  answer  to  my  question  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  my  reading,  as  to  whether  the  superintendents 
of  the  census  would  accept  my  proposition  to  retain 


36  WJTAT  TO  no? 

their  places  with  the  object  of  becoming  mediators 
between  society  and  the  needy,  an  awkward  silence 
ensued.  Then  two  orators  made  speeches.  These 
speeches  in  some  measure  corrected  the  awkwardness 
of  my  proposal ;  sympathy  for  me  was  expressed,  but 
the  impracticability  of  my  proposition,  which  all  had 
approved,  was  demonstrated.  Everybody  breathed 
more  freely.  But  when,  still  desirous  of  gaining  my 
object,  I  afterwards  asked  the  superintendents  separ- 
ately :  Were  they  willing,  while  taking  the  census,  to 
inquire  into  the  needs  of  the  poor,  and  to  retain  their 
posts,  in  order  to  serve  as  go-betweens  between  the 
poor  and  the  rich?  they  all  grew  uneasy  again.  They 
seemed  to  say  to  me  with  their  glances :  ''  Why,  we 
have  just  condoned  your  folly  out  of  respect  to  you, 
and  here  you  are  beginnmg  it  again  !  "  Such  was  the 
expression  of  their  faces,  but  they  assured  me  in  words 
that  they  agreed  ;  and  two  of  them  said  in  the  very 
same  words,  as  though  they  had  entered  into  a  compact 
together:  ''We  consider  ourselves  morally  bound  to 
do  this."  The  same  impression  was  produced  by 
my  communication  to  the  student-census-takers,  when 
I  said  to  them,  that  while  taking  our  statistics,  we 
should  follow  up,  in  addition  to  the  objects  of  the 
census,  the  object  of  benevolence.  When  we  dis- 
cussed this,  I  observed  that  they  were  ashamed  to 
look  the  kind-hearted  man,  who  was  talking  nonsense, 
in  the  eye.  My  article  produced  the  same  impression  on 
the  editor  of  the  newspaper,  when  I  handed  it  to  him ; 
on  my  son,  on  my  wife,  on  the  most  widely  different 
persons.  All  felt  awkward,  for  some  reason  or  other ; 
but  all  regarded  it  as  indispensable  to  applaud  the  idea 
itself,  and  all,  immediately  after  this  expression  of 
approbation,  began  to  express  their  doubts  as  to  its 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      37 

success,  and  began  for  some  reason  (and  all  of  them, 
too,  without  exception)  to  condemn  the  indifference 
and  coldness  of  our  society  and  of  every  one,  appar- 
ently, except  themselves. 

In  the  depths  of  my  own  soul,  I  still  continued  to 
feel  that  all  this  was  not  at  all  what  was  needed,  and 
that  nothing  would  come  of  it ;  but  the  article  was 
printed,  and  I  prepared  to  take  part  in  the  census ;  I 
had  contrived  the  matter,  and  now  it  was  already  carry- 
ing me  away  with  it. 


38  WHAT  TO  DOf 


IV. 


At  my  request,  there  had  been  assigned  to  me  for 
the  census,  a  portion  of  the  Khamovnitchesky  quarter, 
at  the  Smolensk  market,  along  the  Prototchny  cross- 
street,  between  Beregovoy  Passage  and  Nikolsky  Alley. 
In  this  quarter  are  situated  the  houses  generally  called 
the  Rzhanoff  houses,  or  the  Rzhanoff  fortress.  These 
houses  once  belonged  to  a  merchant  named  Rzhanoti*, 
but  now  belong  to  the  Zimius.  1  had  long  before 
heard  of  this  place  as  a  haunt  of  the  most  terrible 
poverty  and  vice,  and  I  had  accordingly  requested  the 
directors  of  the  census  to  assign  me  to  this  quarter. 
My  desire  was  granted. 

On  receiving  the  instructions  of  the  City  Council,  I 
went  alone,  a  few  days  previous  to  the  beginning  of 
the  census,  to  reconnoitre  my  section.  I  found  the 
Rzhanoff  fortress  at  once,  from  the  plan  with  which  I 
had  been  furnished. 

I  approached  from  Nikolsky  Alley.  Nikolsky  Alley 
ends  on  the  left  in  a  gloomy  house,  without  any  gates 
on  that  side ;  I  divined  from  its  appearance  that  this 
was  the  Rzhanoff  fortress. 

Passing  down  Nikolsky  Street,  I  overtook  some  lads 
of  from  ten  to  fourteen  j^ears  of  age,  clad  in  little 
caftans  and  great-coats,  who  were  sliding  down  hill, 
some  on  their  feet,  and  some  on  one  skate,  along  the 
icy  slope  beside  this  house.  The  boys  were  ragged, 
and,  like  all  city  lads,  bold  and  impudent.     I  stopped 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      39 

to  watch  them.  A  ragged  old  woman,  with  yellow, 
pendent  cheeks,  came  round  the  corner.  She  was  going 
to  town,  to  the  Smolensk  market,  and  she  groaned  ter- 
ribl^^  at  every  step,  like  a  foundered  horse.  As  she 
came  alongside  me,  she  halted  and  drew  a  hoarse  sigh. 
In  any  other  locality,  this  old  woman  would  have  asked 
money  of  me,  but  here  she  merely  addressed  me. 

*'  Look  there,"  said  she,  pointing  at  the  boys  who 
were  sliding,  "all  they  do  is  to  play  their  pranks! 
They'll  turn  out  just  such  Rzhanoff  fellows  as  their 
fathers." 

One  of  the  boys  clad  in  a  great-coat  and  a  visorless 
cap,  heard  her  words  and  halted  : 

' '  What  are  you  scolding  about  ?  "  he  shouted  to  the 
old  woman.  "  You're  an  old  Rzhanoff  nanny-goat 
yourself!" 

I  asked  the  boy  : 

"  And  do  you  live  here?  " 

"Yes,  and  so  does  she.  She  stole  boot-legs," 
shouted  the  boy  ;  and  raising  his  foot  in  front,  he  slid 
away. 

The  old  woman  burst  forth  into  injurious  words,  in- 
terrupted by  a  cough.  At  that  moment,  an  old  man, 
all  clad  in  rags,  and  as  white  as  snow,  came  down  the 
hill  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  flourishing  his  hands 
[in  one  of  them  he  held  a  bundle  with  one  little  kalatch 
and  baranki  ^  J .  This  old  man  bore  the  appearance  of 
a  person  who  had  just  strengthened  himself  with  a 
dram.  He  had  evidently  heard  the  old  woman's  in- 
sulting words,  and  he  took  her  part. 

"I'll  give  it  to  you,  you  imps,  that  I  will!"  he 
screamed  at  the  boys,  seeming  to  direct  his  course 
towards   them,    and    taking   a   circuit   round   me,    he 

*  Kalatch,  a  kind  of  roll :  baranki,  cracknels  of  fine  flour. 


40  WHAT  TO  DOf 

stepped  on  to  the  sidewalk.  This  old  man  creates  sur- 
prise on  the  Arbata  by  his  great  age,  his  weakness,  and 
his  indigence.  Here  he  was  a  cheery  laboring-man 
returning  from  his  daily  toil. 

I  followed  the  old  man.  He  turned  the  corner  to  the 
left,  into  Prototchny  Alley,  and  passing  by  the  whole 
length  of  the  house  and  the  gate,  he  disappeared 
through  the  door  of  the  tavern. 

Two  gates  and  several  doors  open  on  Prototchny 
Alle,y :  those  belonging  to  a  tavern,  a  dram-shop, 
and  several  eating  and  other  shops.  This  is  the 
Rzhanoff  fortress  itself.  Every  thing  here  is  gray, 
dirty,  and  malodorous  —  both  buildings  and  locality, 
and  court-yards  and  people.  The  majority  of  the 
people  whom  I  met  here  were  ragged  and  half -clad. 
Some  were  passing  through,  others  were  running 
from  door  to  door.  Two  were  haggling  over  some 
rags.  I  made  the  circuit  of  the  entire  building  from 
Prototchny  Alley  and  Beregovoj^  Passage,  and  return- 
ing I  halted  at  the  gate  of  one  of  these  houses.  I 
wished  to  enter,  and  see  what  was  going  on  inside, 
but  I  felt  that  it  would  be  awkward.  What  should 
I  say  when  1  was  asked  what  I  wanted  there?  I 
hesitated^  but  went  in  nevertheless.  As  soon  as 
1  entered  the  court-yard,  I  became  conscious  of  a 
disgusting  odor.  The  yard  was  frightfully  dirty,  f 
turned  a  corner,  and  at  the  same  instant  I  heard  to 
my  left  and  overhead,  on  the  wooden  balcony,  the 
tramp  of  footsteps  of  people  running,  at  first  along 
the  planks  of  the  balcony,  and  then  on  the  steps  of 
the  staircase.  There  emerged,  first  a  gaunt  woman, 
with  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  in  a  faded  pink  gown,  and 
little  boots  on  her  stockiugless  feet.  After  her  came  a 
tattered  man  in  a  red  shirt  and  very  full  trousers,  like 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      41 

a  petticoat,  and  with  overshoes.  The  man  caught  the 
woman  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 

''  You  shall  not  escape,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  See  here,  you  cock-eyed  devil,"  began  the  woman, 
evidently  flattered  by  this  pursuit ;  15ut  catching  sight 
of  me,  she  shrieked  viciously,  "  What  do  you  want?" 

As  I  wanted  nothing,  I  became  confused  and  beat 
a  retreat.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the 
place  ;  but  this  incident,  after  what  I  had  witnessed  on 
the  other  side  of  the  yard,  the  cursing  old  woman,  the 
jolly  old  man,  and  the  lads  sliding,  suddenly  presented 
the  business  which  I  had  concocted  from  a  totally 
different  point  of  view.  I  then  comprehended  for  the 
first  time,  that  all  these  unfortunates  to  whom  I  was 
desirous  of  playing  the  part  of  benefactor,  besides  the 
time,  when,  suffering  from  cold  and  hunger,  they 
awaited  admission  into  the  house,  had  still  other 
time,  which  they  employed  to  some  other  purpose, 
that  there  were  four  and  twenty  hours  in  every  day, 
that  there  was  a  whole  life  of  which  I  had  never 
thought,  up  to  that  moment.  Here,  for  the  first  time, 
I  understood,  that  all  those  people,  in  addition  to  their 
desire  to  shelter  themselves  from  the  cold  and  to  ob- 
tain a  good  meal,  must  still,  in  some  way,  live  out 
those  four  and  twenty  hours  each  day,  which  they 
must  pass  as  well  as  everybody  else.  I  comprehended 
that  these  people  must  lose  their  tempers,  and  get 
bored,  show  courage,  and  grieve  and  be  merry. 
Strange  as  this  may  seem,  when  put  into  words,  I 
understood  clearl}'  for  the  first  time,  that  the  business 
which  I  had  undertaken  could  not  consist  alone  in 
feeding  and  clothing  thousands  of  people,  as  one 
would  feed  and  drive  under  cover  a  thousand  sheep, 
but   that    it   must   consist   in    doing   good   to    them. 


42  WJIAT  TO  BO? 

And  then  I  understood  that  each  one  of  those  thou- 
sand people  was  exactly  such  a  man,  —  with  precisely 
the  same  past,  with  the  same  passions,  temptations, 
failings,  with  the  same  thoughts,  the  same  perplexi- 
ties,—  exactly  silbli  a  man  as  mj'self,  and  then  the 
thing  that  I  had  undertaken  suddenly  presented  itself 
to  me  as  so  difficult  that  I  felt  my  powerlessness  ;  but 
the  thing  had  been  begun,  and  I  went  on  with  it. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.     43 


On  the  first  appointed  day,  the  student  enumerators 
arrived  in  the  morning,  and  I,  the  benefactor,  joined 
them  at  twelve  o'clock.  I  could  not  go  earlier,  because 
1  had  risen  at  ten  o'clock,  then  I  had  drunk  my  coffee 
and  smoked,  while  waiting  on  digestion.  At  twelve 
o'clock  I  reached  the  gates  of  the  Rzhanoff  house. 
A  policeman  pointed  out  to  me  the  tavern  with  a  side 
entrance  on  Beregovoy  Passage,  where  the  census- 
takers  had  ordered  every  one  who  asked  for  them  to 
be  directed.  I  entered  the  tavern.  It  was  very  dark, 
ill-smelling,  and  dirty.  Directly  opposite  the  entrance 
was  the  counter,  on  the  left  was  a  room  with  tables, 
covered  with  soiled  cloths,  on  the  right  a  large  apart- 
ment with  pillars,  and  the  same  sort  of  little  tables  at 
the  windows  and  along  the  walls.  Here  and  there 
at  the  tables  sat  men  both  ragged  and  decently  clad, 
like  laboring-men  or  petty  tradesmen,  and  a  few 
women  drinking  tea.  The  tavern  was  very  filthy,  but 
it  was  insta,ntly  apparent  that  it  had  a  good  trade. 
There  was  a  business-like  expression  on  the  face  of 
the  clerk  behind  the  counter,  and  a  clever  readiness 
about  the  waiters.  No  sooner  had  I  entered,  than  one 
waiter  prepared  to  remove  my  coat  and  bring  me 
whatever  I  should  order.  It  was  evident  that  they 
had  been  trained  to  brisk  and  accurate  service.  I  in- 
quired for  the  enumerators. 

"  Vanya ! "  shouted  a  small  man,  dressed  in  German 


44  WHAT  TO  DOf 

fashion,  who  was  engaged  in  placing  something  in  a 
cupboard  behind  the  counter;  this  was  the  landlord 
of  the  tavern,  a  Kaluga  peasant,  Ivan  Fedotitch,  who 
hired  one-half  of  the  Ziniins'  houses  and  sublet  them 
to  lodgers.  The  waiter,  a  thin,  hooked-nosed  young 
fellow  of  eighteen,  with  a  yellow  complexion,  hastened 
up. 

"Conduct  this  gentleman  to  the  census-takers  ;  they 
went  into  the  main  building  over  the  well. "  The  young 
fellow  threw  down  his  napkin,  and  donned  a  coat  over 
his  white  jacket  and  white  trousers,  and  a  cap  with  a 
large  visor,  and,  tripping  quickly  along  with  his  white 
feet,  he  led  me  through  the  swinging  door  in  the  rear. 
In  the  dirty,  malodorous  kitchen,  in  the  out-building, 
we  encountered  an  old  woman  who  was  carefully  cariy- 
ing  some  very  bad-smelling  tripe,  wrapped  in  a  rag, 
off  somewhere.  From  the  out-building  we  descended 
into  a  sloping  court-yard,  all  encumbered  with  small 
wooden  buildings  on  lower  stories  of  stone.  The  odor 
in  this  whole  yard  was  extremely  powerful.  The 
centre  of  this  odor  was  an  out-house,  round  which 
people  were  thronging  whenever  I  passed  it.  It 
merely  indicated  the  spot,  but  was  not  altogether  used 
itself.  It  was  impossible,  when  passing  through  the 
yard,  not  to  take  note  of  this  spot ;  one  always  felt 
oppressed  when  one  entered  the  penetrating  atmosphere 
which  was  emitted  by  this  foul  smell. 

The  waiter,  carefully  guarding  his  white  trousers,  led 
me  cautiously  past  this  place  of  frozen  and  unfrozen 
uncleanness  to  one  of  the  buildings.  The  people  who 
were  passing  through  the  yard  and  along  the  balconies 
all  stopped  to  stare  at  me.  It  was  evident  that  a 
respectably  dressed  man  was  a  curiosity  in  these 
localities. 


THOUGHTS   F.  YOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      45 

The  young  man  asked  a  woman  "  whether  she  had 
seen  the  census-takers?'*  And  three  men  simulta- 
neousl}^  answered  his  question :  some  said  that  they 
were  over  the  well,  but  others  said  that  the}'  had  been 
there,  but  had  come  out  and  gone  to  Nikita  Ivanovitch. 
An  old  man  dressed  only  in  his  shirt,  who  was  wan- 
dering about  the  centre  of  the  yard,  said  that  they 
were  in  No.  30.  The  young  man  decided  that  this 
was  the  most  probable  report,  and  conducted  me  to 
No.  30  through  the  basement  entrance,  amid  dark- 
ness and  bad  smells,  different  from  that  which  ex- 
isted outside.  We  went  down-stairs,  and  proceeded 
along  the  earthen  floor  of  a  dark  corridor.  As  we 
were  passing  along  the  corridor,  a  door  flew  open 
abruptly,  and  an  old  drunken  man,  in  his  shirt,  prob- 
abl}'  not  of  the  peasant  class,  thrust  hnuself  out.  A 
washerwoman,  wringing  her  soapy  hands,  was  pursu- 
ing and  hustling  the  old  man  with  piercing  screams. 
Vanya,  my  guide,  pushed  the  old  man  aside,  and 
reproved  him. 

"It's  not  proper  to  make  such  a  row,"  said  he, 
"and  3'ou  an  officer,  too!"  and  we  went  on  to  the 
door  of  No.  30. 

Vanya  gave  it  a  little  pull.  The  door  gave  way 
with  a  smack,  opened,  and  we  smelled  soapy  steam, 
and  a  sharp  odor  of  spoilt  food  and  tobacco,  and  we 
entered  into  total  darkness.  The  windows  were  on 
the  opposite  side ;  but  the  corridors  ran  to  right 
and  left  between  board  partitions,  and  small  doors 
opened,  at  various  angles,  into  the  rooms  made  of 
uneven  whitewashed  boards.  In  a  dark  room,  on  the 
left,  a  woman  could  be  seen  washing  in  a  tub.  An 
old  woman  was  peeping  from  one  of  these  small  doors 
on  the  right.     Through  another  open  door  we  could 


46  WfTAT  TO  DOT 

see  a  red-faced,  hairy  peasant,  in  bast  shoes,  sitting  on 
his  wooden  bunk  ;  his  hands  rested  on  his  knees,  and 
he  was  swinging  his  feet,  shod  in  bast  shoes,  and 
gazing  gloomily  at  them. 

At  the  end  of  the  corridor  was  a  little  door  leading 
to  the  apartment  where  the  census-takers  were.  This 
was  the  chamber  of  the  mistress  of  the  whole  of  No. 
30 ;  she  i-ented  the  entire  apartment  from  Ivan  Feodo- 
vitch,  and  let  it  out  again  to  lodgers  and  as  night- 
quarters.  In  her  tiny  room,  under  the  tinsel  images, 
sat  the  student  census- taker  with  his  charts ;  and,  in 
his  quality  of  investigator,  he  had  just  thoroughly  in- 
terrogated a  peasant  wearing  a  shirt  and  a  vest.  This 
latter  was  a  friend  of  the  landlady,  and  had  been 
answering  questions  for  her.  The  landlady  herself, 
an  elderly  woman,  was  there  also,  and  two-,of  her 
curious  tenants.  When  I  entered,  the  room  was 
already  packed  full.  I  pushed  my  way  to  the  table. 
I  exchanged  greetings  with  the  student,  and  he  pro- 
ceeded with  his  inquiries.  And  I  began  to  look  about 
me,  and  to  interrogate  the  inhabitants  of  these  quarters 
for  my  own  purpose. 

It  turned  out,  that  in  this  first  set  of  lodgings,  I 
found  not  a  single  person  upon  whom  1  could  pour  out 
ray  benevolence.  The  landlady,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that, 
the  poverty,  smallness  and  dirt  of  these  quarters  struck 
me  after  the  palatial  house  in  which  I  dwell,  lived  m 
comfort,  compared  with  many  of  the  poor  inhabitants 
of  the  city,  and  in  comparison  with  the  poverty  in  the 
country-,  with  which  I  was  thoroughly  familiar,  she 
lived  luxuriously.  She  had  a  feather-bed,  a  quilted 
coverlet,  a  samovar,  a  fur  cloak,  and  a  dresser  with 
crockery.  The  landlady's  friend  had  the  same  com- 
fortable appearance.     He   had  a  watch  and  a  chain. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      47 

Her  lodgers  were  not  so  well  off,  but  there  was  not  one 
of  them  who  was  in  need  of  immediate  assistance  : 
the  woman  who  was  washing  linen  in  a  tub,  and  who 
had  been  abandoned  by  her  husband  and  had  children, 
an  aged  widow  without  any  means  of  livelihood,  as 
she  said,  and  that  peasant  in  bast  shoes,  who  told  me 
that  he  had  nothing  to  eat  that  day.  But  on  question- 
ing them,  it  appeared  that  none  of  these  people  were 
in  special  want,  and  that,  in  order  to  help  them,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  become  well  acquainted  with 
them. 

When  I  proposed  to  the  woman  whose  husband  had 
abandoned  her,  to  place  her  children  in  an  asylum,  she 
became  confused,  fell  into  thought,  thanked  me  effu- 
sively, but  evidently  did  not  wish  to  do  so  ;  she  would 
have  preferred  pecuniary  assistance.  The  eldest  girl 
helped  her  in  her  washing,  and  the  younger  took  care 
of  the  little  boy.  The  old  woman  begged  earnestly  to 
be  taken  to  the  hospital,  but  on  examining  her  nook  I 
found  that  the  old  woman  was  not  particularly  poor. 
She  had  a  chest  full  of  effects,  a  teapot  with  a  tin 
spout,  two  cups,  and  caramel  boxes  filled  with  tea  and 
sugar.  She  knitted  stockings  and  gloves,  and  received 
monthly  aid  from  some  benevolent  lady..  And  it  was 
evident  that  what  the  peasant  needed  was  not  so  much 
food  as  drink,  and  that  whatever  might  be  given  him 
would  find  its  way  to  the  dram-shop.  In  these  quar- 
ters, therefore,  there  were  none  of  the  sort  of  people 
whom  I  could  render  happy  by  a  present  of  money. 
But  there  were  poor  people  who  appeared  to  me  to  be 
of  a  doubtful  character.  I  noted  down  the  old  woman, 
the  woman  with  the  children,  and  the  peasant,  and 
decided  that  they  must  be  seen  to ;  but  later  on,  as  I 
was  occupied  with  the   peculiarly  unfortunate  whom 


48  WHAT  TO  DOf 

I  expected  to  find  in  this  house,  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  there  must  be  some  order  in  the  aid  which  we 
should  bestow ;  first  came  the  most  wretched,  and 
then  this  kind.  But  in  the  next  quarters,  and  in  the 
next  after  that,  it  was  the  same  story,  all  the  people 
ha<.l  to  be  narrowly  investigated  before  they  could  be 
helped.  But  unfortunates  of  the  sort  whom  a  gift 
of  money  would  convert  from  unfortunate  into  fortu- 
nate people,  there  were  none.  Mortifying  as  it  is  to  me 
to  avow  this,  1  began  to  get  disenchanted,  because  I 
did  not  find  among  these  people  any  thing  of  the  sort 
which  I  had  expected.  I  had  expected  to  find  pecul- 
iar people  here ;  but,  after  making  the  round  of  all 
the  apartments,  I  was  convinced  that  the  inhabitants 
of  these  houses  were  not  peculiar  people  at  all,  but 
precisely  such  pei'sons  as  those  among  whom  1  lived. 
As  there  are  among  us,  just  so  among  them ;  there 
were  here  those  who  were  more  or  less  good,  more  or 
less  stupid,  happy  and  unhappy.  The  unhappy  were 
exactly  such  unhappy  beings  as  exist  among  us,  that 
is,  unhappy  people  whose  unhappiness  lies  not  in  their 
external  conditions,  but  m  themselves,  a  sort  of  un- 
happiness which  it  is  impossible  to  right  by  any  sort  of 
bank-note  whatever. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS  OF  MOSCOW.     49 


VI. 


The  inhabitants  of  these  houses  constitute  the  lower 
class  of  the  city,  which  numbers  in  Moscow,  proba- 
bly, one  hundred  thousand.  There,  in  that  house, 
are  representatives  of  every  description  of  this  class. 
There  are  petty  employers,  and  master- artisans,  boot- 
makers, brush-makers,  cabinet-makers,  turners,  shoe- 
makei-s,  tailors,  blacksmiths ;  there  are  cab-drivers, 
young  women  living  alone,  and  female  pedlers,  laun- 
dresses, old-clothes  dealers,  money-lenders,  day -labor- 
ers, and  people  without  any  definite  employment ;  and 
also  beggars  and  dissolute  women. 

Here  were  many  of  the  very  people  whom  I  had  seen 
at  the  entrance  to  the  Lyapinsky  house ;  but  here 
these  people  were  scattered  about  among  the  working- 
people.  And  moreover,  I  had  seen  these  people  at  their 
most  unfortunate  time,  when  they  had  eaten  and  drunk 
up  every  thing,  and  when,  cold,  hungry,  and  driven  forth 
from  the  taverns,  they  were  awaiting  admission  into 
the  free  night  lodging-house,  and  thence  into  the  prom- 
ised prison  for  despatch  to  their  places  of  residence, 
like  heavenly  manna ;  but  here  1  beheld  them  amid 
a  majority  of  workers,  and  at  a  time,  when  by  one 
means  or  another,  they  had  procured  three  or  five 
kopeks  for  a  lodging  for  the  night,  and  sometimes  a 
ruble  for  food  and  drink. 

And  strange  as  the  statement  may  seem,  I  here  ex- 
perienced nothing  resembling  that  sensation  which  I 


50  WHAT  TO  DO? 

had  felt  in  the  Lyapinsky  house ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
during  the  first  round,  both  1  and  the  students  experi- 
enced an  almost  agreeable  feeling,  —  yes,  but  why  do 
I  say  ''almost  agreeable"?  This  is  not  true;  the 
feeling  called  forth  by  intercourse  with  these  people, 
strange  as  it  may  sound,  was  a  distinctly  agreeable 
one. 

Our  first  impression  was,  that  the  greater  part  of 
the  dwellers  here  were  working  people  and  very  good 
people  at  that. 

We  found  more  than  half  the  inhabitants  at  work : 
laundresses  bending  over  their  tubs,  cabinet-makers 
at  their  lathes,  cobblers  on  their  benches.  The  narrow 
rooms  were  full  of  people,  and  cheerful  and  energetic 
labor  was  in  progress.  There  was  an  odor  of  toilsome 
sweat  and  leather  at  the  cobbler's,  of  shavings  at  the 
cabinet-maker's ;  songs  were  often  to  be  heard,  and 
glimpses  could  he  had  of  brawny  arms  with  sleeves 
rolled  high,  quickly  and  skilfully  making  their  accus- 
tomed movements.  Everywhere  we  were  received 
cheerfully  and  politely :  hardly  anywhere  did  our  in- 
trusion into  the  every-day  life  of  these  people  call 
forth  that  ambition,  and  desire  to  exhibit  their  impor- 
tance and  to  put  us  down,  which  tlie  appearance  of  the 
enumerators  in  the  quarters  of  well-to-do  people  evoked. 
It  not  only  did  not  arouse  this,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
they  answered  all  our  questions  properly,  and  without 
attributing  any  special  significance  to  them.  Our 
questions  merely  served  them  as  a  subject  of  mirth 
and  jesting  as  to  how  such  and  such  a  one  was  to  be 
set  down  in  the  list,  when  he  was  to  be  reckoned  as 
two,  and  when  two  were  to  be  reckoned  as  one,  and 
so  forth. 

We  found  many  of  them  at  dinner,  or  tea ;  and  on 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      51 

every  occasion  to  our  greeting:  "bread  and  salt,"  or 
"tea  and  sugar,"  tliey  replied  :  "  we  beg  that  you  will 
partake,"  and  even  stepped  aside  to  make  room  for 
us.  Instead  of  the  den  with  a  constantly  changing 
population,  which  we  had  expected  to  find  here,  it 
turned  out,  that  there  were  a  great  man}'  apartments 
in  the  house  where  people  had  been  living  for  a  long 
lime.  One  cabinet-maker  with  his  men,  and  a  boot- 
maker with  his  journeymen,  had  lived  there  for  ten 
years.  The  boot-maker's  quarters  were  very  dirty 
and  confined,  but  all  the  people  at  work  were  very 
cheerful.  I  tried  to  enter  into  conversation  with  one 
of  the  workmen,  being  desirous  of  inquiring  into  the 
wretchedness  of  his  situation  and  his  debt  to  his 
master,  but  the  man  did  not  understand  me  and  spoke 
of  his  master  and  his  life  from  the  best  point  of  view. 

In  one  apartment  lived  an  old  man  and  his  old 
woman.  They  peddled  apples.  Their  little  chamber 
was  warm,  clean,  and  full  of  goods.  On  the  floor 
were  spread  straw  mats :  they  had  got  them  at  the 
apple-warehouse.  They  had  chests,  a  cupboard,  a 
samovar,  and  crockery.  In  the  corner  there  were 
numerous  images,  and  two  lamps  were  burning  before 
them  ;  on  the  wall  hung  fur  coats  covered  with  sheets. 
The  okl  woman,  who  had  star-shaped  wrinkles,  and 
who  was  polite  and  talkative,  evidently  delighted  in 
her  quiet,  comfortable  existence. 

Ivan  Fedotitch,  the  landlord  of  the  tavern  and  of 
these  quarters,  left  his  establishment  and  came  with 
us.  He  jested  in  a  friendly  manner  with  many  of 
the  landlords  of  apartments,  addressing  them  all  by 
their  Christian  names  and  patronymics,  and  he  gave 
us  brief  sketches  of  them.  All  were  ordinary  people, 
like  everybody  else,  —  Martin  Semyonovitches,  Piotr 


62  WHAT  TO  DO? 

Piotrovitches,  Marya  Ivanovnas,  —  people  who  did  not 
consider  themselves  unhappy,  but  who  regarded  them- 
selves, and  who  actually  were,  just  like  the  rest  of 
mankind. 

We  had  been  prepared  to  witness  nothing  except 
what  was  terrible.  And,  all  of  a  sudden,  there  was 
presented  to  us,  not  only  nothing  that  was  terrible,  but 
what  was  good,  —  things  which  involuntarily  com- 
pelled our  respect.  And  there  were  so  many  of  these 
good  people,  that  the  tattered,  corrupt,  idle  people 
whom  we  came  across  now  and  then  among  them,  did 
not  destroy  the  principal  impression. 

This  was  not  so  much  of  a  surprise  to  the  students 
as  to  me.  They  simply  went  to  fulfil  a  useful  task,  as 
they  thought,  in  the  interests  of  science,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  they  made  their  own  chance  observations ; 
but  I  was  a  benefactor,  I  went  for  the  purix>se  of  aiding 
the  unfortunate,  the  corrupt,  vicious  people,  whom  I 
supposed  that  I  should  meet  with  in  this  house.  And, 
behold,  instead  of  unfortunate,  corrupt,  and  vicious 
people,  I  saw  that  the  majority  were  laborious,  indus- 
trious, peaceable,  satisfied,  contented,  cheerful,  polite, 
and  very  good  folk  indeed. 

I  felt  particularl}^  conscious  of  this  when,  in  these 
quarters,  I  encountered  that  same  crying  want  which  .1 
had  undertaken  to  alleviate. 

When  I  encountered  this  want,  I  always  found  that 
it  had  already  been  relieved,  that  the  assistance  which 
I  had  intended  to  render  had  already  been  given.  This 
assistance  had  been  rendered  before  my  advent,  and 
rendered  by  whom  ?  By  the  very  unfortunate,  depraved 
creatures  whom  I  had  undertaken  to  reclaim,  and  ren- 
dered in  such  a  manner  as  I  could  not  compass. 

In  one  basement  lay  a  solitary  old  man,  ill  with  the 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      53 

typhus  fever.  There  was  no  one  with  the  old  man.  A 
widow  and  her  little  daughter,  strangers  to  him,  but 
his  neighbors  round  the  corner,  looked  after  him,  gave 
him  tea  and  purchased  medicine  for  him  out  of  their  own 
means.  In  another  lodging  lay  a  woman  in  puerperal 
fever.  A  woman  who  lived  by  vice  was  rocking  the 
baby,  and  giving  her  her  bottle  ;  and  for  two  days,  she 
had  been  unremitting  in  her  attention.  The  baby  girl, 
on  bemg  left  an  orphan,  was  adopted  into  the  family 
of  a  tailor,  who  had  three  children  of  his  own.  So 
there  remained  those  unfortunate  idle  people,  officials, 
clerks,  lackeys  out  of  place,  beggars,  drunkards,  dis- 
solute women,  and  children,  who  cannot  be  helped  on 
the  spot  with  money,  but  whom  it  is  necessary  to  know 
thoroughly,  to  be  planned  and  arranged  for.  I  had 
simply  sought  unfortunate  people,  the  unfortunates  of 
poverty,  those  who  could  be  helped  by  sharing  with 
them  our  superfluity,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  through 
some  signal  ill-luck,  none  such  were  to  be  found  ;  but  I 
hit  upon  unfortunates  to  whom  I  should  be  obliged  to 
devote  my  time  and  care. 


64  WHAT  TO  not 


VII. 


The  unfortunates  whom  I  noted  down,  divided  them- 
selves, according  to  my  ideas,  into  three  sections, 
namely  :  people  who  had  lost  their  former  advantageous 
position,  and  who  were  awaiting  a  return  to  it  (there 
were  [people  of  this  sort  from  both  the  lower  and  the 
higher  class)  ;  next,  dissolute  women,  of  whom  there 
are  a  great  many  in  these  houses ;  and  a  third  division, 
children.  More  than  all  the  rest,  I  found  and  noted 
down  people  of  the  first  division,  who  had  forfeited 
their  former  advantageous  position,  and  who  hoped  to 
regain  it.  Of  such  pereons,  especially  from  the  gov- 
ernmental and  official  world,  there  are  a  very  great 
number  in  these  houses.  In  almost  all  the  lodgings 
which  we  entered,  with  the  landlord,  Ivan  Fedotitch, 
he  said  to  us:  *' Here  you  need  not  writ^  down  the 
lodger's  card  yourself ;  there  is  a  man  here  who  can 
do  it,  if  he  only  happens  not  to  be  mtoxicated  to-day." 

And  Ivan  Fedotitch  called  by  name  and  patronymic 
this  man,  who  was  always  one  of  those  persons  who 
had  fallen  from  a  lofty  position.  At  Ivan  Fedotitch 's 
call,  there  crawled  forth  from  some  dark  corner,  a 
former  wealthy  member  of  the  noble  or  official  class, 
generally  intoxicated  and  always  undressed.  If  he  was 
not  drunk,  he  always  readily  acceded  to  the  task  pro- 
posed to  him,  nodded  significantly,  frowned,  set  down 
his  remarks  in  learned  phraseology,  held  the  card  neatly 
printed  on  red  paper  in  his  dirty,  trembling  hands,  and 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF   MOSCOW.      55 

glanced  round  at  his  fellow-lodgers  with  pride  and  con- 
tempt, as  though  now  triumphing  in  his  education  over 
those  who  had  so  often  humiliated  him.  He  evidently 
enjoyed  intercourse  with  that  world  in  which  cards  are 
printed  on  red  paper,  and  with  that  world  of  which  he 
had  once  formed  a  part.  Nearly  always,  in  answer  to 
my  inquiries  about  his  life,  the  man  began,  not  only 
willingly,  but  eagerly,  to  relate  the  story  of  the  misfor- 
tunes which  he  had  undergone,  —  which  he  had  learned 
by  rote  like  a  prayer,  —  and  particularly  of  his  former 
position,  in  which  he  ought  still  to  be  by  right  of  his 
education. 

A  great  many  such  people  were  scattered  over  all 
the  corners  of  the  Rzhanoff  house.  But  one  lodging 
was  densely  occupied  by  them  alone  —  both  men  and 
women.  After  we  had  already  entered,  Ivan  Fcdo- 
titch  said  to  us  :  ''  Now,  here  are  some  of  the  nobility." 
The  lodging  was  perfectly  crammed ;  nearly  all  of  the 
people,  forty  in  number,  were  at  home.  More  de- 
moralized countenances,  unhappy,  aged,  and  swollen, 
young,  pallid,  and  distracted,  were  not  to  be  seen  io 
the  whole  building.  I  conversed  with  several  of  them. 
The  story  was  nearly  identical  in  all  cases,  only  in 
various  stages  of  development.  Every  one  of  them 
had  been  rich,  or  his  father,  his  brother  or  his  uncle 
was  still  wealthy,  or  his  father  or  he  himself  had  had 
a  very  fine  position.  Then  misfortune  had  overtaken 
him,  the  blame  for  which  rested  either  on  envious  peo- 
ple, or  on  his  own  kind-heartedness,  or  some  special 
chance,  and  so  he  had  lost  every  thing,  and  had  been 
forced  to  condescend  to  these  surroundings  to  which 
he  was  not  accustomed,  and  which  were  hateful  to 
him  —  among  lice,  rags,  among  drunkards  and  corrupt 
persons,  and  to  nourish  himself  on  bread  and  liver, 


56  WHAT  TO  DO? 

and  to  extend  his  hand  in  beggary.  All  the  thoughts, 
desires,  memories  of  these  people  were  directed  exclu- 
sively to  the  past.  The  present  appeared  to  them 
something  unreal,  repulsive,  and  not  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. Not  one  of  them  had  any  present.  They  had 
only  memories  of  the  past,  and  expectations  from  the 
future,  which  might  be  realized  at  any  moment,  and 
for  the  realization  of  which  only  a  very  little  was  re- 
quired ;  but  this  little  they  did  not  possess,  it  was  no- 
where to  be  obtained,  and  this  had  been  ruining  their 
whole  future  life  in  vain,  in  the  case  of  one  man,  for 
a  year,  of  a  second  for  five  years,  and  of  a  third  for 
thirty  3'ears.  All  one  needed  was  merely  to  dress 
respectably,  so  that  he  could  present  himself  to  a  cer- 
tain personage,  who  was  well-disposed  towards  him ; 
another  only  needed  to  be  able  to  dress,  pay  off  his 
debts,  and  get  to  Orel ;  a  third  required  to  redeem  a 
small  property  which  was  mortgaged,  for  the  continua- 
tion of  a  law-suit,  which  must  be  decided  in  his  favor, 
and  then  all  would  be  well  once  more.  They  all  de- 
clare that  they  merely  require  something  external,  in 
order  to  stand  once  more  in  the  position  which  they 
regard  as  natural  and  happy  in  their  own  case. 

Had  my  mind  not  been  obscured  by  m}^  pride  as  a 
benefactor,  a  glance  at  their  faces,  both  old  and  young, 
which  were  mostly  weak  and  sensitive,  but  amiable, 
would  have  given  me  to  understand  that  their  misfor- 
tunes were  irreparable  by  any  external  means,  that 
they  could  not  be  happy  in  any  position  whatever,  if 
their  views  of  life  were  to  remain  unchanged,  that  they 
were  in  no  wise  remarkable  people,  in  remarkably  un- 
fortunate circumstances,  but  that  they  were  the  same 
people  who  surround  us  on  all  sides,  and  just  like  our- 
selves.    I  remember  that  intercourse  with  this  sort  of 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      57 

unfortunates  was  peculiarly  difficult  for  me.  I  now 
understand  why  this  was  so ;  in  them  I  beheld  myself, 
as  in  a  mirror.  If  I  had  reflected  on  my  own  life  and 
on  the  life  of  the  people  in  our  circle,  1  should  have 
seen  that  no  real  difference  existed  between  them. 

If  those  about  me  dwell  in  spacious  quarters,  and 
in  their  own  houses  on  the  Sivtzevy  Vrazhok  and  on 
the  Dimitrovka,  and  not  in  the  Rzhanoflf  house,  and 
still  eat  and  drink  dainties,  and  not  liver  and  her- 
rings with  bread,  that  does  not  prevent  them  from 
being  exactly  as  unhappy.  They  are  just  as  dissatis- 
fied with  their  own  positions,  they  mourn  over  the 
past,  and  pine  for  better  things,  and  the  improved 
position  for  which  they  long  is  precisely  the  same  as 
that  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  Rzhanoff  house  long 
for ;  that  is  to  say,  one  in  which  they  may  do  as  little 
work  as  possible  themselves,  and  derive  the  utmost 
advantage  from  the  labors  of  others.  The  difference 
is  merely  one  of  degrees  and  time.  If  I  had  reflected 
at  that  time,  I  should  have  understood  this  ;  but  I  did 
not  reflect,  and  I  questioned  these  i^eople,  and  wrote 
them  down,  supposing,  that,  having  learned  all  the  par- 
ticulars of  their  various  conditions  and  necessities,  I 
could  aid  them  later  on.  I  did  not  understand  that 
such  a  man  can  only  be  helped  by  changing  his  views 
of  the  world.  But  in  order  to  change  the  views  of 
another,  one  must  needs  have  better  views  himself,  and 
live  in  conformity  with  them  ;  but  mine  were  precisely 
the  same  as  theirs,  and  I  lived  in  accordance  with 
those  views,  which  must  undergo  a  change,  in  order 
that  these  people  might  cease  to  be  unhappy. 

I  did  not  see  that  these  people  were  unhappy,  not 
because  they  had  not,  so  to  speak,  nourishing  food, 
but  because  their  stomachs  had  been  spoiled,  and  be- 


68  WHAT  TO  DO? 

cause  their  appetites  demanded  not  nourishing  but 
irritating  viands  ;  and  1  did  not  perceive  that,  in  order 
to  help  them,  it  was  not  necessary  to  give  them  food, 
but  that  it  was  necessary  to  heal  their  disordered 
stomachs.  Although  I  am  anticipating  by  so  doing, 
I  will  mention  here,  that,  out  of  all  these  persons 
whom  I  noted  down,  I  really  did  not  help  a  single  one, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  for  some  of  them,  that  was 
done  which  they  desired,  and  that  which,  apparently, 
might  have  raised  them.  Three  of  their  number  were 
particularly  well  known  to  me.  All  three,  after  re- 
peated rises  and  falls,  are  now  in  preciselj'  the  same 
situation  in  which  they  were  three  yeai's  ago. 


TnOUGBTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW,      59 


VIII. 

The  second  class  of  unfortunates  whom  I  also  ex- 
pected to  assist  later  on,  were  the  dissolute  women ; 
there  were  a  very  great  many  of  them,  of  all  sorts,  in 
the  Rzhanoff  house  —  from  those  who  were  young  and 
who  resembled  women,  to  old  ones,  who  were  frightful 
and  horrible,  and  who  had  lost  every  semblance  of 
humanity.  The  hope  of  being  of  assistance  to  these 
women,  which  I  had  not  at  first  entertained,  occurred 
to  me  later.  This  was  in  the  middle  of  our  rounds. 
We  had  already  worked  out  several  mechanical  tricks 
of  procedure. 

When  we  entered  a  new  establishment,  we  immedi- 
ately questioned  the  landlady  of  the  apartment;  one 
of  us  sat  down,  clearing  some  sort  of  a  place  for  him- 
self where  he  could  write,  and  another  penetrated  the 
corners,  and  questioned  each  man  in  all  the  nooks  of 
the  apartment  separately,  and  reported  the  facts  to 
the  one  who  did  the  writing. 

On  entering  a  set  of  rooms  in  the  basement,  a  stu- 
dent went  to  hunt  up  the  landlady,  while  I  began  to 
interrogate  all  who  remained  in  the  place.  The  apart- 
ment was  thus  arranged  :  in  the  centre  was  a  room  six 
arshins  square,^  and  a  small  oven.  From  the  oven 
radiated  four  partitions,  forming  four  tiny  compart- 
ments. In  the  first,  the  entrance  slip,  which  had  four 
bunks,  there  were  two  persons  —  an  old  man  and  a 

*  An  arskin  is  twenty  eigbt  inch«38. 


60  WHAT  TO  DO? 

woman.  Immediately  adjoinmg  this,  was  a  rather  long 
slip  of  a  room  ;  in  it  was  the  landlord,  a  young  fellow, 
dressed  in  a  sleeveless  gray  woollen  jacket,  a  good- 
looking,  very  pale  citizen.^  On  the  left  of  the  first 
corner,  was  a  third  tiny  chamber  ;  there  was  one  person 
asleep  there,  probably  a  drunken  peasant,  and  a  woman 
in  a  pink  blouse  which  was  loose  in  front  and  close- 
fitting  behind.  The  fourth  chamber  was  behind  the 
partition ;  the  entrance  to  it  was  from  the  landlord's 
compartment. 

The  student  went  into  the  landlord's  room,  and  T 
remained  in  the  entrance  compartment,  and  questioned 
the  old  man  and  woman.  The  old  man  had  been  a 
master-printer,  but  now  had  no  means  of  livelihood. 
The  woman  was  the  wife  of  a  cook.  I  went  to  the 
third  compartment,  and  questioned  the  woman  in  the 
blouse  about  the  sleeping  man.  She  said  that  he  was 
a  visitor.  I  asked  the  woman  who  she  was.  She 
replied  that  she  was  a  Moscow  peasant.  "  What  is 
your  business?  "  She  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  did  not 
answer  me.  "What  do  you  live  on?"  I  repeated, 
thinking  that  she  had  not  understood  my  question.  "  I 
sit  in  the  taverns,"  she  said.  I  did  not  comprehend, 
and  again  I  inquired  :  "  What  is  your  means  of  liveli- 
hood?" She  made  no  reply  and  laughed.  Women's 
voices  in  the  fourth  compartment  which  we  had  not  yet 
entered,  joined  in  the  laugh.  The  landlord  emerged 
from  his  cabin  and  stepped  up  to  us.  He  had  evi- 
dentl}^  heard  my  questions  and  the  woman's  replies. 
He  cast  a  stern  glance  at  the  woman  and  turned  to  me  : 
"  She  is  a  prostitute,"  said  he,  apparently  pleased  that 
he  knew  the  word  in  use  in  the  language  of  the  author- 
ities, and  that  he  could  pronounce  it  correctly.     And 

*  A  myeshc/iatUii,  or  citizen,  who  pays  only  poll-tax  and  not  a  guild  tax. 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      61 

having  said  this,  with  a  respectful  and  barely  percep- 
tible smile  of  satisfaction  addressed  to  me,  he  turned  to 
the  woman.  And  no  sooner  had  he  turned  to  her,  than 
his  whole  face  altered.  He  said,  in  a  peculiar,  scornful, 
hasty  tone,  such  as  is  employed  towards  dogs  :  *'  What 
do  you  jabber  in  that  careless  way  f or ?  'I  sit  in  the 
taverns.'  You  do  sit  in  the  taverns,  and  that  means, 
to  talk  business,  that  you  are  a  prostitute,"  and  again 
he  uttered  the  word.  ''  She  does  not  know  the  name 
for  herself."  This  tone  offended  me.  '^  It  is  not  our 
place  to  abuse  her,"  said  I.  "If  all  of  us  lived  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  of  God,  there  would  be  none  of 
these  women." 

"That's  the  very  point,"  said  the  landlord,  with  an 
awkward  smile. 

"  Therefore,  we  should  not  reproach  but  pity  them. 
Are  they  to  blame?  " 

I  do  not  recollect  just  what  I  said,  but  I  do  remember 
that  I  was  vexed  by  the  scornful  tone  of  the  landlord  of 
these  quarters  which  were  filled  with  women,  whom  he 
called  prostitutes,  and  that  I  felt  compassion  for  this 
woman,  and  that  I  gave  expression  to  both  feelings. 
No  sooner  had  I  spoken  thus,  than  the  boards  of  the 
bed  in  the  next  compartment,  whence  the  laugh  had 
proceeded,  began  to  creak,  and  above  the  partition, 
which  did  not  reach  to  the  ceiling,  there  appeared  a 
woman's  curly  and  dishevelled  head,  with  small,  swollen 
eyes,  and  a  shining,  red  face,  followed  by  a  second, 
and  then  by  a  third.  They  were  evidently  standing 
on  then-  beds,  and  all  three  were  craning  their  necks, 
and  holding  their  breath  with  strained  attention,  and 
gazing  silently  at  us. 

A  troubled  pause  ensued.  The  student,  who  had 
been  smiling  up  to  this  time,  became  serious  ;  the  land- 


62  WHAT  TO  DOf 

lord  grew  confused  and  dropped  his  eyes.  All  the 
women  held  their  breath,  stared  at  me,  and  waited. 
I  was  more  embarrassed  than  any  of  them.  I  had  not, 
in  the  least,  anticipated  that  a  chance  remark  would 
produce  such  an  effect.  Like  Ezekiel's  field  of  death, 
strewn  with  dead  men's  bones,  there  was  a  quiver 
at  the  touch  of  the  spirit,  and  the  dead  bones  stirred. 
I  had  uttered  an  unpremeditated  word  of  love  and 
sympathy,  and  this  word  had  acted  on  all  as  though 
they  had  only  been  waiting  for  this  very  remark,  in 
order  that  they  might  cease  to  be  corpses  and  might 
live.  They  all  stared  at  me,  and  waited  for  what 
would  come  next.  They  waited  for  me  to  utter  those 
words,  and  to  perform  those  actions  by  reason  of 
which  these  bones  might  draw  together,  clothe  them- 
selves with  flesh,  and  spring  into  life.  But  I  felt  that 
I  had  no  such  words,  no  such  actions,  by  means  of 
which  I  could  continue  what  I  had  begun  ;  I  was  con- 
scious, in  the  depths  of  my  soul,  that  I  had  lied  [that 
I  was  just  like  them],^  and  there  was  nothing  further 
for  me  to  say  ;  and  I  began  to  inscribe  on  the  cards 
the  names  and  callings  of  all  the  persons  in  this  set  of 
apartments. 

This  incident  led  me  into  a  fresh  dilemma,  to  the 
thought  of  how  these  unfortunates  also  might  be  helped. 
In  my  self-delusion,  I  fancied  that  this  would  be  very 
easy.  I  said  to  myself:  *'  Here,  we  will  make  a  note 
of  all  these  women  also,  and  latei'  on  when  we  [I  did 
not  specify  to  myself  who  *'we"  were]  write  every 
thing  out,  we  will  attend  to  these  persons  too."  I 
imagined  that  we,  the  very  ones  who  have  brought  and 
have  been  bringing  these  women  to  this  condition  for 
several  generations,  would  take  thought  some  fine  day 

1  Omitted  in  authorised  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      63 

and  reform  all  this.  But,  in  the  mean  time,  if  I  had 
only  recalled  my  conversation  with  the  disreputable 
woman  who  had  been  rocking  the  baby  of  the  fever- 
stricken  patient,  I  might  have  comprehended  the  full 
extent  of  the  folly  of  such  a  supposition. 

When  we  saw  this  woman  with  the  baby,  we  thought 
that  it  was  her  child.  To  the  question,  ''  Who  was 
she?"  she  had  replied  in  a  straightforward  way  that 
she  was  unmarried.  She  did  not  say  —  a  prostitute. 
Only  the  master  of  the  apartment  made  use  of  that 
frightful  word.  The  supposition  that  she  had  a  child 
suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  removing  her  from  her 
position.     I  inquired : 

''  Is  this  your  child?  " 

*'  No,  it  belongs  to  that  woman  yonder.** 

*' Why  are  you  taking  care  of  it? '* 

"  Because  she  asked  me  ;  she  is  dying.'* 

Although  my  supposition  proved  to  be  erroneous,  I 
continued  my  conversation  with  her  in  the  same  spirit. 
I  began  to  question  her  as  to  who  she  was,  and  how 
she  had  come  to  such  a  state.  She  related  her  history 
very  readily  and  simply.  She  was  a  Moscow  myesh- 
cJianka,  the  daughter  of  a  factory  hand.  She  had 
been  left  an  orphan,  and  had  been  adopted  by  an  aunt. 
From  her  aunt's  she  had  begun  to  frequent  the  taverns. 
The  aunt  was  now  dead.  When  I  asked  her  whether 
she  did  not  wish  to  alter  her  mode  of  life,  my  question, 
evidently,  did  not  even  arouse  her  interest.  How  can 
one  take  an  interest  in  the  proposition  of  a  man,  in  re- 
gard to  something  absolutely  impossible  ?  She  laughed, 
and  said  :  "And  who  would  take  me  in  with  my  yellow 
ticket?" 

"  Well,  but  if  a  place  could  be  found  somewhere  as 
cook?  "  said  I. 


64  WHAT   TO  1)0  f 

This  thought  occurred  to  me  because  she  was  a  stout, 
ruddy  woman,  with  a  kindly,  round,  and  rather  stupid 
face.  Cooks  are  often  like  that.  My  words  evidently 
did  not  please  her.     She  repeated  : 

''A  cook  —  but  I  don't  know  how  to  make  bread," 
said  she,  and  she  laughed.  She  said  that  she  did  not 
know  how  ;  but  I  saw  from  the  expression  of  her  coun- 
tenance that  she  did  not  wish  to  become  a  cook,  that 
she  regarded  the  position  and  calling  of  a  cook  as  low. 

This  woman,  who  in  the  simplest  possible  manner 
was  sacrificing  every  thing  that  she  had  for  the  sick 
woman,  like  the  widow  in  the  Gospels,  at  the  same 
time,  like  many  of  her  companions,  regarded  the  posi- 
tion of  a  person  who  works  as  low  and  deserving  of 
scorn.  She  had  been  brought  up  to  live  not  by  work, 
but  by  this  life  which  was  considered  the  natural  one 
for  her  by  those  about  her.  In  that  lay  her  misfortune. 
And  she  fell  in  with  this  misfortune  and  clung  to  her 
position.  This  led  her  to  frequent  the  taverns.  Which 
of  us — man  or  woman  —  will  correct  her  false  view  of 
life  ?  Where  among  us  are  the  people  to  be  found  who 
are  convinced  that  every  laborious  life  is  more  worthy 
of  respect  than  an  idle  life,  —  who  are  convinced  of 
this,  and  who  live  m  conformity  with  this  belief,  and 
who  in  conformity  with  this  conviction  value  and  respect 
people?  If  I  had  thought  of  this,  I  might  have  under- 
stood that  neither  I,  nor  any  other  person  among  my 
acquaintances,  could  heal  this  complaint. 

I  might  have  understood  that  these  amazed  and 
affected  heads  thrust  over  the  partition  indicated  only 
surprise  at  the  S3'mpathy  expressed  for  them,  but  not 
in  the  least  a  hope  of  reclamation  from  their  dissolute 
life.  Tliey  do  not  perceive  the  immorality  of  their  life. 
They  see  that  they  are  despisecl  and  cursed,  but  for 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      65 

what  they  are  thus  despised  they  cannot  comprehend. 
Their  life,  from  childhood,  has  been  spent  among  just 
such  women,  who,  as  the}^  very  well  know,  always  have 
existed,  and  are  indispensable  to  society,  and  so  indis- 
pensable that  there  are  governmental  officials  to  attend 
to  their  legal  existence.  Moreover,  they  know  that 
they  have  power  over  men,  and  can  bring  them  into  sub- 
jection, and  rule  them  often  more  than  other  women. 
They  see  that  their  position  in  society  is  recognized 
by  women  and  men  and  the  authorities,  in  spite  of 
their  continual  curses,  and  therefore,  they  cannot 
understand  why  they  should  reform. 

In  the  course  of  one  of  the  tours,  one  of  the  students 
told  me  that  in  a  certain  lodging,  there  was  a  woman 
who  was  bargaining  for  her  thirteen-year-old  daughter. 
Being  desirous  of  rescuing  this  girl,  I  made  a  trip  to 
that  lodging  expressly.  Mother  and  daughter  were 
living  in  the  greatest  poverty.  The  mother,  a  small, 
dark-complexioned,  dissolute  woman  of  forty,  was  not 
only  homely,  but  repulsively  homely.  The  daughter 
was  equall}'  disagreeable.  To  all  my  pointed  questions 
about  their  life,  the  mother  responded  curtly,  suspi- 
ciously, and  in  a  hostile  way,  evidently  feeling  that  I 
was  an  enemy,  with  evil  intentions  ;  the  daughter  made 
no  reply,  did  not  look  at  her  mother,  and  evidently 
trusted  the  latter  fully.  They  inspired  me  with  no  sin- 
cere i)ity,  but  rather  with  disgust.  But  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  the  daughter  must  be  rescued,  and  that  I 
would  interest  ladies  who  pitied  the  sad  condition  of 
these  women,  and  send  them  hither.  But  if  I  had  re- 
flected on  the  mother's  long  life  in  the  past,  of  how  she 
had  given  birth  to,  nursed  and  reared  this  daughter  in 
her  situation,  assuredly  without  the  slightest  assist- 
ance from  outsiders,  and  with  heavy  sacrifices  —  if  I 


66  WHAT  TO  DO? 

had  reflected  on  the  view  of  life  which  this  woman  had 
formed,  I  should  have  understood  that  there  was, 
decidedlj^  nothing  bad  or  immoral  in  the  mother's  act : 
she  had  done  and  was  doing  for  her  daughter  all  that 
she  could,  that  is  to  say,  what  she  considered  the  best 
for  herself.  This  daughter  could  be  forcibly  removed 
from  her  mother ;  but  it  would  be  impossible  to  con- 
vince the  mother  that  she  was  doing  wrong,  in  selling 
her  daughter.  If  any  one  was  to  be  saved,  then  it 
must  be  this  woman  —  the  mother  ought  to  have  been 
sav€d ;  [and  that  long  before,  from  that  view  of  life 
which  is  approved  by  every  one,  according  to  which 
a  woman  may  live  unmarried,  that  is,  without  bearing 
children  and  without  work,  and  simply  for  the  satis- 
faction of  the  passions.  If  I  had  thought  of  this, 
I  should  have  understood  that  the  majority  of  the  ladies 
whom  I  intended  to  send  thither  for  the  salvation  of 
that  little  girl,  not  only  live  without  bearing  children 
and  without  working,  and  serving  only  passion,  but 
that  they  deliberately  rear  their  daughters  for  the  same 
life ;  one  mother  takes  her  daughter  to  the  taverns, 
another  takes  hers  to  balls.  But  both  mothers  hold  the 
same  view  of  the  world,  namely,  that  a  woman  must 
satisfy  man's  passions,  and  that  for  this  she  must  be 
fed,  dressed,  and  cared  for.  Then  how  are  our  ladies, 
to  reform  this  woman  and  her  daughter  ?  ^] 

1  Omitted  by  the  Censor  iu  the  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.     67 


IX. 


Still  more  remarkable  were  my  relations  to  the 
children.  In  my  rdle  of  benefactor,  I  turned  my  atten- 
tion to  the  children  also,  being  desirous  to  save  these 
hinocent  beings  from  perishing  in  that  lair  of  vice,  and 
noting  them  down  in  order  to  attend  to  them  after- 
wards. 

Among  the  children,  I  was  especially  struck  with  a 
twelve-year-old  lad  named  Serozha.  I  was  heartily 
sorry  for  this  bold,  intelligent  lad,  who  had  lived  with 
a  cobbler,  and  who  had  been  left  without  a  shelter 
because  his  master  had  been  put  in  jail,  and  I  wanted 
to  do  good  to  him. 

I  will  here  relate  the  upshot  of  my  benevolence  in 
his  caSe,  because  my  experience  with  this  child  is 
best  adapted  to  show  my  false  position  in  the  role 
of  benefactor.  I  took  the  boy  home  with  me  and 
put  him  in  the  kitchen.  It  was  impossible,  was  it 
not,  to  take  a  child  who  had  lived  in  a  den  of  iniquity 
in  among  my  own  children?  And  I  considered  my- 
self very  kind  and  good,  because  he  was  a  care, 
not  to  me,  but  to  the  servants  in  the  kitchen,  and 
because  not  I  but  the  cook  fed  him,  and  because 
I  gave  him  some  cast-off  clothing  to  wear.  The  boy 
staid  a  week.  During  that  week  I  said  a  few  words 
to  him  as  I  passed  on  two  occasions  ;  and  in  the  course 
of  my  strolls,  I  went  to  a  shoemaker  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, and  proposed  that  he  should  take  the  lad  as  an 


68  WHAT  TO  DO? 

apprentice.  A  peasant  who  was  visiting  me,  invited 
him  to  go  to  the  country,  into  his  family,  as  a  laborer ; 
the  bo}"  refused,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  dis- 
appeared. I  went  to  the  Rzhanoff  house  to  inquire 
after  him.  He  had  returned  tliere,  but  was  not  at 
home  when  I  went  thither.  For  two  days  ah'eady,  he 
had  been  going  to  the  Prj^esnensky  ponds,  where  he 
had  liired  himself  out  at  thirty  kopeks  a  day  in  some 
procession  of  savages  in  costume,  who  led  alx)ut 
elephants.  Something  was  being  presented  to  the 
public  there.  I  went  a  second  time,  but  he  was  so  un- 
grateful that  he  evidently  avoided  me.  Had  I  then 
reflected  on  the  life  of  that  boy  and  on  my  own,  I  should 
have  understood  that  this  boy  was  spoiled  because  he 
had  discovered  the  possibility  of  a  merry  life  without 
labor,  and  that  he  had  grown  unused  to  work.  And  I, 
with  the  object  of  benefiting  and  reclaiming  him,  had 
taken  him  to  my  house,  where  he  saw — what?  My 
children,  —  both  older  and  younger  than  himself,  and  of 
the  same  age,  —  who  not  only  never  did  any  work  for 
themselves,  but  who  made  work  for  others  by  every 
means  in  their  power,  who  soiled  and  spoiled  every 
thing  about  them,  who  ate  rich,  dainty,  and  sweet 
viands,  broke  china,  and  flung  to  the  dogs  food  which 
would  have  been  a  tidbit  to  this  lad.  If  I  had  res-, 
cued  him  from  the  abyss,  and  had  taken  him  to  that 
nice  place,  then  he  must  acquire  those  views  which  pre- 
vailed in  the  life  of  that  nice  place  ;  but  by  these  views, 
he  understood  that  in  that  fine  place  he  must  so  live 
that  he  should  not  toil,  but  eat  and  drink  luxuriously, 
and  lead  a  joyous  life.  It  is  true  that  he  did  not  know 
that  my  children  bore  heavy  burdens  in  the  acquisition 
of  the  declensions  of  Latin  and  Greek  grammar,  and 
that  he  could  not  have  understood  the  object  of  these 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      69 

labors.  But  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  that  if  he  had 
understood  this,  the  influence  of  my  children's  example 
t)n  him  would  have  been  even  stronger.  He  would  then 
have  comprehended  that  my  children  were  being  edu- 
cated in  this  manner,  so  that,  while  doing  no  work  now, 
they  might  be  in  a  position  hereafter,  also  profiting  by 
their  diplomas,  to  work  as  little  as  possible,  and  to 
enjoy  the  pleasures  of  life  to  as  great  an  extent  as 
possible.  He  did  understand  this,  and  he  would  not  go 
with  the  peasant  to  tend  cattle,  and  to  eat  potatoes  and 
kvas  with  him,  but  he  went  to  the  zoological  garden  in 
the  costume  of  a  savage,  to  lead  the  elephant  at  thirty 
kopeks  a  day. 

I  might  have  understood  how  clumsy  I  was,  when  I 
was  rearing  my  children  in  the  most  utter  idleness 
and  luxury,  to  reform  other  people  and  their  children, 
who  were  perishing  from  idleness  in  what  I  called  the 
den  of  the  Rzhanoff  house,  where,  nevertheless,  three- 
fourths  of  the  people  toil  for  themselves  and  for  others. 
But  I  understood  nothing  of  this. 

There  were  a  great  many  children  in  the  Rzhanoff 
house,  who  were  in  the  same  pitiable  plight;  there 
were  the  children  of  dissolute  women,  there  were 
orphans,  there  were  children  who  had  been  picked  up 
in  the  streets  by  beggars.  They  were  all  very  wretched. 
But  my  experience  with  Serozha  showed  me  that  I, 
living  the  life  I  did,  was  not  in  a  position  to  help  them. 
While  Serozha  was  living  with  us,  I  noticed  in  myself 
an  effort  to  hide  our  life  from  him,  in  particular  the 
life  of  our  children.  I  felt  that  all  my  efforts  to 
direct  him  towards  a  good,  industrious  life,  were 
counteracted  by  the  examples  of  our  lives  and  by  that 
of  our  children.  It  is  very  easy  to  take  a  child  away 
from  a  disreputable  woman,  or  from  a  beggar.     It  is 


70  WHAT  TO  DO? 

very  easy,  when  one  has  the  money,  to  wash,  clean 
and  dress  him  in  neat  clothing,  to  support  him,  and 
even  to  teach  him  various  sciences  ;  but  it  is  not  only 
difficult  for  us,  who  do  not  earn  our  own  bread,  but 
quite  the  reverse,  to  teach  him  to  work  for  his  bread, 
but  it  is  impossible,  because  we,  by  our  example,  and 
even  by  those  material  and  valueless  improvements 
of  his  life,  inculcate  the  contrary.,  A  puppy  can  be 
taken,  tended,  fed,  and  taught  to  fetch  and  carry,  and 
one  may  take  pleasure  in  him  :  but  it  is  not  enough  to 
tend  a  man,  to  feed  and  teach  him  Greek;  we  must 
teach  the  man  how  to  live,  —  that  is,  to  take  as  little 
as  possible  from  others,  and  to  give  as  much  as  pos- 
sible ;  and  we  cannot  help  teaching  him  to  do  the 
contrary,  if  we  take  him  into  our  houses,  or  into  an 
institution  founded  for  this  purpose. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      71 


X. 


This  feeling  of  compassion  for  people,  and  of  disgust 
with  myself,  which  I  had  experienced  in  the  Lyapinsky 
house,  I  experienced  no  longer.  I  was  completely 
absorbed  in  the  desire  to  carry  out  the  scheme  which 
I  had  concocted,  —  to  do  good  to  those  people  whom  I 
should  meet  here.  And,  strange  to  say,  it  would  ap- 
pear, that,  to  do  good  —  to  give  money  to  the  needy  — 
is  a  very  good  deed,  and  one  that  should  dispose  me 
to  love  for  the  people,  but  it  turned  out  the  reverse : 
this  act  produced  in  me  ill-will  and  an  inclination  to 
condemn  people.  But  during  our  first  evening  tour, 
a  scene  occurred  exactly  like  that  in  the  Lyapinsky 
house,  and  it  called  forth  a  wholly  different  sentiment. 

It  began  by  my  finding  in  one  set  of  apartments  an 
unfortunate  individual,  of  precisel}'  the  sort  who  re- 
quire immediate  aid.  I  found  a  hungry  woman  who 
had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  two  days. 

It  came  about  thus :  in  one  very  large  and  almost 
empty  nigh4;-lodging,  I  asked  an  old  woman  whether 
there  were  many  poor  people  who  had  nothing  to  eat  ? 
The  old  woman  reflected,  and  then  told  me  of  two  ;  and 
then,  as  though  she  had  just  recollected,  "Why,  here 
is  one  of  them,''  said  she,  glancing  at  one  of  the  occu- 
pied bunks.      "  I  think  that  woman  has  had  no  food." 

"Really?     Who  is  she?" 

"  She  was  a  dissolute  woman  :  no  one  wants  any 
thing  to  do  with  her  now,  so  she  has  no  way  of  getting 


72  WHAT  TO  DO? 

any  thing.  The  landlady  has  had  compassion  on  her, 
but  now  she  means  to  turn  her  out.  .  .  .  Agafya, 
hey  there,  Agafya !  "  cried  the  woman. 

We  approached,  and  something  rose  up  in  the  bunk. 
It  was  a  woman  haggard  and  dishevelled,  whose  hair 
was  half  gray,  and  who  was  as  thin  as  a  skeleton, 
dressed  in  a  ragged  and  dirty  chemise,  and  with  par- 
ticularly brilliant  and  staring  eyes.  She  looked  past 
us  with  her  staring  eyes,  clutched  at  her  jacket  with 
one  thin  hand,  in  order  to  cover  her  bony  breast  which 
was  disclosed  by  her  tattered  chemise,  and  oppressed, 
she  cried,  ''What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  I  asked  her 
about  her  means  of  livelihood.  For  a  long  time  she 
did  not  understand,  and  said,  "  I  don't  know  myself; 
they  persecute  me."  I  asked  her, — it  puts  me  to 
shame,  my  hand  refuses  to  write  it,  —  I  asked  her 
whether  it  was  true  that  she  had  nothing  to  eat? 
She  answered  in  the  same  hurried,  feverish  tone,  star- 
ing at  me  the  while,  — 

"  No,  I  had  nothing  yesterday,  and  I  have  had  noth- 
ing to-day." 

The  sight  of  this  woman  touched  me,  but  not  at  all 
as  had  been  the  case  in  the  Lyapiusky  house  ;  there,  my 
pity  for  these  people  made  me  instantly  feel  ashamed 
of  myself :  but  here,  I  rejoiced  because  I  had  at  last 
found  what  I  had  been  seeking,  —  a  hungry  person. 

I  gave  her  a  ruble,  and  I  recollect  being  very  glad 
that  others  saw  it.  The  old  woman,  on  seeing  this, 
immediately  begged  money  of  me  also.  It  afforded 
me  such  pleasure  to  give,  that,  without  finding  out 
whether  it  was  necessary  to  give  or  not,  I  gave  some- 
thing to  the  old  woman  too.  The  old  woman  accom- 
panied me  to  the  door,  and  the  people  standing  in  the 
corridor  heard  her  blessing  me.    Probably  the  questions 


THOU  GUTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      73 

which  I  had  put  with  regard  to  poverty,  had  aroused 
expectation,  and  several  persons  followed  us.  In  the 
corridor  also,  they  began  to  ask  me  for  money.  Among 
those  who  begged  were  some  drunken  men,  who  aroused 
an  unpleasant  feeling  in  me ;  but,  having  once  given 
to  the  old  woman,  I  had  no  right  to  refuse  these  people, 
and  I  began  to  give.  As  long  as  I  continued  to  give, 
people  kept  coming  up  ;  and  excitement  ran  through 
all  the  lodgings.  People  made  their  appearance  on  the 
stairs  and  galleries,  and  followed  me.  As  I  emerged 
into  the  court-yard,  a  little  boy  ran  swiftly  down  one 
of  the  staircases  thrusting  the  people  aside.  He  did 
not  see  me,  and  exclaimed  hastily  :  ''  He  gave  Agashka 
a  ruble  !  "  When  he  reached  the  ground,  the  boy 
joined  the  crowd  which  was  following  me.  I  went  out 
mto  the  street :  various  descriptions  of  people  followed 
me,  and  asked  for  money.  I  distributed  all  my  small 
change,  and  entered  an  open  shop  with  the  request 
that  the  shopkeeper  would  change  a  ten-ruble  bill  for 
me.  And  then  the  same  thing  happened  as  at  the 
Lyapinsky  house.  A  terrible  confusion  ensued.  Old 
women,  noblemen,  peasants,  and  children  crowded  into 
the  shop  with  outstretched  hands ;  I  gave,  and  interro- 
gated some  of  them  as  to  their  lives,  and  took  notes. 
The  shopkeeper,  turning  up  the  furred  points  of  the 
collar  of  his  coat,  sat  like  a  stuffed  creature,  glancing 
at  the  crowd  occasionally,  and  then  fixing  his  eyes 
beyond  them  again.  He  evidently,  like  every  one  else, 
felt  that  this  was  foolish,  but  he  could  not  say  so. 

The  poverty  and  beggary  in  the  Lyapinsky  house 
had  horrified  me,  and  I  felt  myself  guilty  of  it ;  I  felt 
the  desire  and  the  possibility  of  improvement.  But 
now,  precisely  tlie  same  scene  produced  on  me  an  en- 
tirely different  effect ;  I  experienced,  in  the  first  place, 


74  WHAT  TO  DOf 

SL  malevolent  feeling  towards  many  of  those  who  were 
besieging  me ;  and  in  the  second  place,  uneasiness  as 
to  what  the  shopkeepers  and  porters  would  think  of 
me. 

On  my  return  home  that  day,  I  was  troubled  in  my 
soul.  1  felt  that  what  I  had  done  was  foolish  and 
immoral.  But,  as  is  always  the  result  of  inward  confu- 
sion, I  talked  a  great  deal  about  the  plan  which  I  had 
undertaken,  as  though  I  entertained  not  the  slightest 
doubt  of  my  success. 

On  the  following  day,  I  went  to  such  of  the  people 
whom  I  had  inscribed  on  my  list,  as  seemed  to  me 
the  most  wretched  of  all,  and  those  who,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  would  be  the  easiest  to  help.  As  I  have 
alread}'  said,  I  did  not  help  any  of  these  people.  It 
proved  to  be  more  difficult  to  help  them  than  I  had 
thought.  And  either  because  I  did  not  know  how,  or 
because  it  was  impossible,  I  merely  imitated  these  peo- 
ple, and  did  not  help  any  one.  I  visited  the  Rzhanoff 
house  several  times  before  the  final  tour,  and  on  every 
occasion  the  very  same  thing  occurred  :  I  was  beset  by 
a  throng  of  beggars  in  whose  mass  I  was  completely 
lost.  I  felt  the  impossibility  of  doing  any  thing,  be- 
cause there  were  too  many  of  them,  and  because  I  felt 
ill-disposed  towards  them  because  there  were  so  many* 
of  them ;  and  in  addition  to  this,  each  one  separately 
did  not  incline  me  in  his  favor.  I  was  conscious  that 
every  one  of  them  was  telling  me  an  untruth,  or  less 
than  the  whole  truth,  and  that  he  saw  in  me  merely  a 
purse  from  which  monej'  might  be  drawn.  And  it 
very  frequently  seemed  to  me,  that  tl»e  verj'  money 
which  they  squeezed  out  of  me,  rendered  tlieir  condi- 
tion worse  mstead  of  improving  it.  The  oftener  I 
went  to  that  house,  the  more  1  entered  into  intercourse 


THOU  GUTS  EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      lb 

with  the  people  there,  the  more  apparent  became  to 
me  the  impossibility  of  doing  any  thing ;  but  still  I 
(lid  not  give  up  my  scheme  until  the  last  night  tour. 

The  remembrance  of  that  last  tour  is  particularly 
mortifying  to  me.  On  other  occasions  I  had  gone 
thither  alone,  but  twenty  of  us  went  there  on  this  occa- 
'sion.  At  seven  o'clock,  all  who  wished  to  take  part  in 
this  final  night  round,  began  to  assemble  at  m^-  house. 
Nearly  all  of  them  were  strangers  to  me,  —  students, 
one  officer,  and  two  of  my  society  acquaintances,  who, 
uttering  the  usual,  ^^C'est  tres  interessant !  "  had  asked 
me  to  include  them  in  the  number  of  the  census-takers. 

My  worldly  acquaintances  had  dressed  up  especially 
for  this,  in  some  sort  of  hunting-jacket,  and  tall,  travel- 
ling boots,  in  a  costume  in  which  they  rode  and  went 
hunting,  and  which,  in  their  opinion,  was  appropriate 
for  an  excursion  to  a  night-lodging-house.  They  took 
with  them  special  note- books  and  remarkable  pencils. 
They  were  in  that  peculiarly  excited  state  of  mind  in 
which  men  set  off  on  a  hunt,  to  a  duel,  or  to  the  wars. 
The  most  apparent  thing  about  them  was  their  folly 
and  the  falseness  of  our  position,  but  all  the  rest  of  us 
were  in  the  same  false  position.  Before  we  set  out, 
we  held  a  consultation,  after  the  fashion  of  a  council 
of  war,  as  to  how  we  should  begin,  how  divide  our 
party,  and  so  on. 

This  consultation  was  exactly  such  as  takes  place  in 
councils,  assemblages,  committees  ;  that  is  to  say,  each 
person  spoke,  not  because  he  had  any  thing  to  say  or 
to  ask,  but  because  each  one  cudgelled  his  brain  for 
something  that  he  could  say,  so  that  he  might  not  fall 
short  of  the  rest.  But,  among  all  these  discussions,  no 
one  alluded  to  that  beneficence  of  which  I  had  so  often 
spoken  to  them  all.     Mortifying  as  this  was  to  me,  I 


76  WHAT  TO  DOf 

felt  that  it  was  indispensable  that  I  should  once  more 
remind  them  of  benevolence,  that  is,  of  the  point,  that 
we  were  to  observe  and  take  notes  of  all  those  in  desti- 
tute circumstances  whom  we  should  encounter  in  the 
course  of  our  rounds.  I  had  always  felt  ashamed  to 
speak  of  this  ;  but  now,  in  the  midst  of  all  our  excited 
preparations  for  our  expedition,  I  could  hardly  utter 
the  words.  All  listened  to  me,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
with  sorrow,  and,  at  the  same  time,  all  agreed  in 
words ;  but  it  was  evident  that  they  all  knew  that  it 
was  folly,  and  that  nothing  would  come  of  it,  and  all 
immediately  began  again  to  talk  about  something  else. 
This  went  on  until  the  time  arrived  for  us  to  set  out, 
and  we  started. 

We  reached  the  tavern,  roused  the  waiters,  and 
began  to  sort  our  papers.  When  we  were  informed 
that  the  people  had  heard  about  this  round,  and  were 
leaving  their  quartei*s,  we  asked  the  landlord  to  lock 
the  gates ;  and  we  went  ourselves  into  the  yard  to  rea- 
son with  the  fleeing  people,  assuring  them  that  no  one 
would  demand  their  tickets.  I  remember  the  strange 
and  painful  impression  produced  on  me  by  these 
alarmed  night-lodgers :  ragged,  half -dressed,  they  all 
seemed  tall  to  me  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  amid  the 
gloom  of  the  court-yard.  Frightened  and  terrifying  in* 
their  alarm,  they  stood  in  a  group  around  the  foul- 
smelling  out-house,  and  listened  to  our  assurances,  but 
they  did  not  believe  us,  and  were  evidently  prepared 
for  any  thing,  like  hunted  wild  beasts,  provided  only 
that  they  could  escape  from  us.  Gentlemen  in  divers 
shapes — as  policemen,  both  city  and  rural,  and  as 
examining  judges,  and  judges  —  hunt  them  all  their 
lives,  in  town  and  country,  on  the  highway  and  in  the 
streets,    and   in    the    taverns,    and    in    night-lodging 


THOU  GUTS    EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      77 

houses ;  and  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  these  gentlemen 
had  come  and  locked  the  gates,  merely  in  order  to 
count  them  :  it  was  as  difficult  for  them  to  believe  this, 
as  for  hares  to  believe  that  dogs  have  come,  not  to 
chase  but  to  count  them.  But  the  gates  were  locked, 
and  the  startled  lodgers  returned  ;  and  we,  breaking  up 
into  groups,  entered  also.  With  me  were  the  two 
society  men  and  two  students.  In  front  of  us,  in  the 
dark,  went  Vanya,  in  his  coat  and  white  trousers,  with 
a  lantern,  and  we  followed.  We  went  to  quarters 
with  which  I  was  familiar.  I  knew  all  the  establish- 
ments, and  some  of  the  people ;  but  the  majority  of 
tile  people  were  new,  and  the  spectacle  was  new,  and 
more  dreadful  than  the  one  which  I  had  witnessed  in 
the  L3^apinsky  house.  All  the  lodgings  were  full,  all 
the  bunks  were  occupied,  not  by  one  person  only,  but 
often  by  two.  The  sight  was  terrible  in  that  narrow 
space  into  which  the  people  were  huddled,  and  men 
and  women  were  mixed  togetlier.  All  the  women  who 
were  not  dead  drunk  slept  with  men  ;  and  women  with 
two  children  did  the  same.  The  sight  was  terrible, 
on  account  of  the  poverty,  dirt,  rags,  and  terror  of 
the  people.  And  it  was  chiefly  dreadful  on  account 
of  the  vast  numbers  of  people  who  were  in  this  situa- 
tion. One  lodging,  and  then  a  second  like  it,  and  a 
third,  and  a  tenth,  and  a  twentieth,  and  still  there  was 
no  end  to  them. 

And  everywhere  there  was  the  same  foul  odor,  the 
same  close  atmosphere,  the  same  crowding,  the  same 
mingling  of  the  sexes,  the  same  men  and  women  in- 
toxicated to  stupidity,  and  the  same  terror,  submission 
and  guilt  on  all  faces ;  and  again  I  was  overwhelmed 
with  shame  and  pain,  as  in  the  Lyapinsky  house,  and 
1  understood  that  what  1  had  undertaken  was  abom- 


78  WHAT  TO  DOf 

inable  and  foolish  and  therefore  impracticable.  And 
I  no  longer  took  notes  of  anybody,  and  I  asked  no 
questions,  knowing  that  nothing  would  come  of  this. 

I  was  deeply  pained.  In  the  Lyapinsky  house  I 
had  been  like  a  man  who  has  seen  a  fearful  wound,  by 
chance,  on  the  body  of  another  man.  He  is  sorry  for 
the  other  man,  he  is  ashamed  that  he  has  not  pitied 
the  man  before,  and  he  can  still  rise  to  the  succor 
of  the  sufferer.  But  now  I  was  like  a  physician,  who 
has  come  with  his  medicine  to  the  sick  man,  has  un- 
covered his  sore,  and  examined  it,  and  who  must  con- 
fess to  himself  that  every  thing  that  he  has  done  has 
been  in  vain,  and  that  his  remedy  is  good  for  nothing. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.     79 


XI. 


This  visit  dealt  the  final  blow  to  my  self-delusion. 
It  now  appeared  indisputable  to  me,  that  what  I  had 
undertaken  was  not  only  foolish  but  loathsome. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  was  aware  of  this,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not  abandon  the  whole  thing 
on  the  spot.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  bound  to 
carry  out  this  enterprise,  in  the  first  place,  because  by 
m}'  article,  by  my  visits  and  promises,  I  had  aroused 
the  expectations  of  the  poor ;  in  the  second,  because 
by  my  article  also,  and  by  my  talk,  I  had  aroused  the 
sympathies  of  benevolent  persons,  many  of  whom  had 
promised  me  their  co-operation  both  in  personal  labor 
and  in  money.  And  I  expected  that  both  sets  of 
people  would  turn  to  me  for  an  answer  to  this. 

What  happened  to  me,  so  far  as  the  appeal  of  the 
needy  to  me  is  concerned,  was  as  follows :  By  letter 
and  personal  application  I  received  more  than  a  hun- 
dred ;  these  applications  were  all  from  the  wealthy- 
poor,  if  I  may  so  express  myself.  I  went  to  see 
some  of  them,  and  some  of  them  received  no  answer. 
Nowhere  did  I  succeed  in  doing  any  thing.  All  appli- 
cations to  me  were  from  persons  who  had  once  occu- 
pied privileged  positions  (I  thus  designate  those  in 
which  people  receive  more  from  others  than  they  give) , 
who  had  lost  them,  and  who  wished  to  occupj'  them 
again.  To  one,  two  hundred  rubles  were  indispensa- 
ble, in  order  that  he  might  prop  up  a  failing  business, 


80  W/IAT  TO   DO? 

and  complete  the  education  of  his  children  which  had 
been  begun  ;  another  wanted  a  photographic  outfit ; 
a  third  wanted  his  debts  paid,  and  respectable  cloth- 
ing purchased  for  him  ;  a  fourth  needed  a  piano,  in 
order  to  perfect  himself  and  support  his  family  by 
giving  lessons.  But  the  majority  did  not  stipulate  for 
any  given  sum  of  money,  and  simply  asked  for  assist- 
ance ;  and  when  I  came  to  examine  into  what  was 
required,  it  turned  out  that  their  demands  grew  in  pro- 
portion to  the  aid,  and  that  there  was  not  and  could 
not  be  any  way  of  satisfying  them.  I  repeat,  that  it 
is  very  possible  that  this  arose  from  the  fact  that  I 
did  not  understand  how ;  but  I  did  not  help  any  one, 
although  I  sometimes  endeavored  to  do  so. 

A  very  strange  and  unexpected  thing  happened  to 
me  as  regards  the  co-operation  of  the  benevolently 
disposed.  Out  of  all  the  persons  who  had  promised 
me  financial  aid,  and  who  had  even  stated  the  number 
of  rubles,  not  a  single  one  handed  to  me  for  distribu- 
tion among  the  poor  one  solitary  ruble.  But  accord- 
ing to  the  pledges  which  had  been  given  me,  I  could 
reckon  on  about  three  thousand  rubles  ;  and  out  of  all 
these  people,  not  one  remembered  our  former  discus- 
sions, or  gave  me  a  single  kopek.  Only  the  students 
gave  the  money  which  had  been  assigned  to  them  for 
their  work  on  the  census,  twelve  rubles,  T  think.  So 
my  whole  scheme,  which  was  to  have  been  expressed 
by  tens  of  thousands  of  rubles  contributed  by  the 
wealthy,  for  hundreds  and  thousands  of  poor  people 
who  were  to  be  rescued  from  poverty  and  vice,  dwin- 
dled down  to  this,  that  I  gave  away,  hap-hazard,  a 
few  scores  of  rubles  to  those  people  who  asked  me  for 
them,  and  that  there  remained  in  my  hands  twelve 
rubles  contributed   by  the   students,  and   twenty-five 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      81 

sent  to  me  by  the  City  Couucil  for  my  labor  as  a 
superintendent,  and  I  absolutely  did  not  know  to 
whom  to  give  them. 

The  whole  matter  came  to  an  end.  And  then,  before 
my  departure  for  the  country,  on  the  Sunday  before 
carnival,  I  went  to  the  Rzhauoff  house  in  the  morning, 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  those  thirty-seven  rubles  before 
I  should  leave  Moscow,  and  to  distribute  them  to  the 
poor.  I  made  the  round  of  the  quarters  with  which 
I  was  familiar,  and  in  them  found  only  one  sick  man, 
to  whom  I  gave  five  rubles.  There  was  no  one  else 
there  to  give  any  to.  Of  course  many  began  to  beg 
of  me.  But  as  I  had  not  known  them  at  first,  so  1  did 
not  know  them  now,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  take 
counsel  with  Ivan  Fedotitch,  the  landlord  of  the  tavern, 
as  to  the  pei*sons  upon  whom  it  would  be  proper  to 
bestow   the  remaining  thirty-two  rubles. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  carnival.  Everybody"  was 
dressed  up,  and  everybody  was  full-fed,  and  many  were 
already  intoxicated.  In  the  court-yard,  close  to  the 
house,  stood  an  old  man,  a  rag-picker,  in  a  tattered 
smock  and  bast  shoes,  sorting  over  the  booty  in  his 
basket,  tossing  out  leather,  iron,  and  other  stuff  in  piles, 
and  breaking  into  a  merry  song,  with  a  fine,  powerful 
voice.  I  entered  into  conversation  with  him.  He  was 
seventy  years  old,  he  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  sup- 
ported himself  by  his  calling  of  a  rag-picker ;  and  not 
only  did  he  utter  no  complaints,  but  he  said  that  he 
had  plenty  to  eat  and  drink.  I  inquired  of  him  as  to 
especially  needy  persons.  He  flew  into  a  rage,  and 
said  plainly  that  there  were  no  needy  people,  except 
drunkards  and  lazy  men  ;  but,  on  learning  my  object, 
he  asked  me  for  a  five-kopek  piece  to  buy  a  drink, 
and  ran  off  to  the  tavern.     I  too  entered  the  tavern  to 


82  WHAT  TO  DO? 

see  Ivan  Fedotitch,  and  commission  him  to  distribute 
the  money  which  I  had  left.  The  tavern  was  full; 
gayl3'-dressed,  intoxicated  girls  were  flitting  in  and 
out ;  all  the  tables  were  occupied ;  there  were  already 
a- great  many  drunken  people,  and  in  the  small  room 
the  harmonium  was  being  played,  and  two  persons 
were  dancing.  Out  of  respect  to  me,  Ivan  Fedotitch 
ordered  that  the  dance  should  be  stopped,  and  seated 
himself  with  me  at  a  vacant  table.  I  said  to  him,  that, 
as  he  knew  his  tenants,  would  not  he  point  out  to  me 
the  most  needy  among  them ;  that  I  had  been  intrusted 
with  the  distribution  of  a  little  money,  and,  therefore, 
would  he  indicate  the  proper  persons  ?  Good-natured 
Ivan  Fedotitch  (he  died  a  year  later),  although  he  was 
pressed  with  business,  broke  awa}^  from  it  for  a  time, 
in  order  to  serve  me.  He  meditated,  and  was  evi- 
dently undecided.  An  elderly  waiter  heard  us,  and 
joined  the  conference. 

The}^  began  to  discuss  the  claims  of  persons,  some 
of  whom  I  knew,  but  still  they  could  not  come  to  any 
agreement.  ''  The  Paramonovna,"  suggested  the 
waiter.  "  Yes,  that  would  do.  Sometimes  she  has 
nothing  to  eat.  Yes,  but  then  she  tipples."  —  "  Well, 
what  of  that?  That  makes  no  difference."  —  "  Well, 
Sidoron  Ivanovitch  has  children.  He  would  do." 
But  Ivan  Fedotitch  had  his  doubts  about  Sidoron 
Ivanovitch  also.  "  Akulina  shall  have  some.  There, 
now,  give  something  to  the  blind."  To  this  I  re- 
sponded. I  saw  him  at  once.  He  was  a  blind  old 
man  of  eighty  years,  without  kith  or  kin.  It  seemed  as 
though  no  condition  could  be  more  painful,  and  I  went 
immediately  to  see  him.  He  was  lying  on  a  feather- 
bed, on  a  high  bedstead,  drunk ;  and,  as  he  did  not 
see  me,  he  was  scolding  his  comparatively  youthful 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      83 

female  companion  in  a  frightful  bass  voice,  and  in 
the  very  worst  kind  of  language.  They  also  summoned 
an  armless  boy  and  his  mother.  I  saw  that  Ivan 
Fedotitch  was  in  great  straits,  on  account  of  his  con- 
scientiousness, for  he  knew  that  whatever  was  given 
would  immediately  pass  to  his  tavern.  But  I  had  to 
get  rid  of  my  thirty-two  rubles,  so  I  insisted ;  and 
in  one  way  and  another,  and  half  wrongfully  to  boot, 
we  assigned  and  distributed  them.  Those  who  received 
them  were  mostly  well  dressed,  and  we  had  not  far  to 
go  to  find  them,  as  they  were  there  in  the  tavern.  The 
armless  boy  appeared  in  wrinkled  boots,  and  a  red  shirt 
and  vest.  With  this  my  charitable  career  came  to  an 
end,  and  I  went  off  to  the  country,  irritated  at  others, 
as  is  always  the  case,  because  I  myself  had  done  a 
stupid  and  a  bad  thing.  My  benevolence  had  ended 
in  nothing,  and  it  ceased  altogether,  but  the  current  of 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  it  had  called  up  within 
me  not  only  did  not  come  to  an  end,  but  the  inward 
work  went  on  with  redoubled  force. 


84  WHAT  TO  nof 


XII. 

What  was  its  nature? 

I  had  lived  in  the  country,  and  there  I  was  connected 
with  the  rustic  poor.  Not  out  of  humility,  which  is 
worse  than  pride,  but  for  the  sake  of  telling  the  truth, 
which  is  indispensable  for  the  understanding  of  the 
whole  course  of  my  thoughts  and  sentiments,  I  will  say 
that  in  the  country  I  did  very  little  for  the  poor,  but 
the  demands  which  were  made  upon  me  were  so  modest 
that  even  this  little  was  of  use  to  the  people,  and 
formed  around  me  an  atmosphere  of  affection  and 
union  with  the  people,  in  which  it  was  possible  to 
soothe  the  gnawing  sensation  of  remorse  at  the  in- 
dependence of  my  life.  On  going  to  the  city,  I  had 
hoped  to  be  able  to  live  in  the  same  manner.  But  here 
I  encountered  want  of  an  entirely  different  sort.  City 
want  was  both  less  real,  and  more  exacting  and  cruel, 
than  country  poverty.  But  the  principal  point  was,  that 
there  was  so  much  of  it  in  one  spot,  that  it  produced 
on  me  a  frightful  impression.  The  impression  which 
I  experienced  in  the  Lyapinsky  house  had,  at  the  very 
first,  made  me  conscious  of  the  deformity  of  my  own 
life.  This  feeling  was  genuine  and  very  powerful. 
But,  notwithstanding  its  genuineness  and  power,  I 
was,  at  that  time,  so  weak  that  I  feared  the  alteration 
in  my  life  to  which  this  feeling  commended  me,  and 
I  resorted  to  a  compromise.  I  believed  what  every- 
body told  me,  and  everybody  has  said,  ever  since  the 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      85 

world  was  made,  — that  there  is  nothing  evil  in  wealth 
and  luxury,  that  they  are  given  by  God,  that  one  may 
continue  to  live  as  a  rich  man,  and  yet  help  the  needy. 
I  believed  this,  and  I  tried  to  do  it.  I  wrote  an  essay, 
in  which  I  summoned  all  rich  people  to  my  assistance. 
The  rich  people  all  acknowledged  themselves  morally 
bound  to  agree  with  me,  but  evidently  they  either  did 
not  wish  to  do  any  thing,  or  they  could  not  do  any 
thing  or  give  any  thing  to  the  poor.  I  began  to  visit 
the  poor,  and  I  beheld  what  I  had  not  in  the  least 
expected.  On  the  one  hand,  I  beheld  in  those  dens, 
as  I  called  them,  people  whom  it  was  not  conceivable 
that  I  should  help,  because  they  were  working  people, 
accustomed  to  labor  and  privation,  and  therefore  stand- 
ing much  higher  and  having  a  much  firmer  foothold 
in  life  than  myself ;  on  the  other  hand,  1  saw  un- 
fortunate people  whom  I  could  not  aid  because  they 
were  exactly  like  myself.  The  majorit}'  of  the  unfor- 
tunates whom  I  saw  w^ere  unhappy  onl3'  because  they 
had  lost  the  capacity,  desire,  and  habit  of  earning 
their  own  bread  ;  that  is  to  say,  their  unhappiness  con- 
sisted in  the  fact  that  they  were  precisely  such  persons 
as  myself. 

I  found  no  unfortunates  who  were  sick,  hungry,  or 
cold,  to  whom  I  could  render  immediate  assistance, 
with  the  solitary  exception  of  hungry  Agafya.  And 
I  became  convinced,  that,  on  account  of  my  remote- 
ness from  the  lives  of  those  people  whom  I  desired 
to  help,  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  find  any  such 
unfortunates,  because  all  actual  wants  had  already  been 
supplied  by  the  very  people  among  whom  these  unfor- 
tunates live ;  and,  most  of  all,  I  was  convinced  that 
money  cannot  effect  any  change  in  the  life  led  by  these 
unhappy  people. 


86  WHAT  TO  DO? 

I  was  convinced  of  all  this,  but  out  of  false  shame 
at  abandoning  what  I  had  once  undertaken,  because 
of  my  self-delusion  as  a  benefactor,  I  went  on  with  this 
matter  for  a  tolerably  long  time, — and  would  have 
gone  on  with  it  until  it  came  to  nothing  of  itself,  —  so 
that  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that,  with  the 
help  of  Ivan  Fedotitch,  I  got  rid,  after  a  fashion,  as 
well  as  I  could,  in  the  tavern  of  the  Rzhanoff  house, 
of  the  thirty-seven  rubles  which  I  did  not  regard  as 
belonging  to  me. 

Of  course  I  might  have  gone  on  with  this  business, 
and  have  made  out  of  it  a  semblance  of  benevolence  ; 
by  urging  the  people  who  had  promised  me  money,  I 
might  have  collected  more,  I  might  have  distributed 
this  money,  and  consoled  m3'self  with  my  charity  ;  but 
I  perceived,  on  the  one  hand,  that  we  rich  people 
neither  wish  nor  are  able  to  share  a  portion  of  our 
superfluity  with  the  poor  (we  have  so  many  wants  of 
our  own) ,  and  that  money  should  not  be  given  to  any 
one,  if  the  object  really  be  to  do  good  and  not  to  give 
money  itself  at  hap-liazard,  as  I  had  done  in  the 
Rzhanoff  tavern.  And  I  gave  up  the  whole  thing, 
and  went  off  to  the  country  with  despair  in  my 
heart. 

In  the  country  I  tried  to  write  an  essay  about  all 
this  that  I  had  experienced,  and  to  tell  why  my  under- 
taking had  not  succeeded.  I  wanted  to  justify  myself 
against  the  reproaches  which  had  been  made  to  me  on 
the  score  of  my  article  on  the  census  ;  I  wanted  to  con- 
vict society  of  its  indifference,  and  to  state  the  causes 
in  which  this  city  poverty  has  its  birth,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  combating  it,  and  the  means  of  doing  so  which 
I  saw. 

I  began  this  essay  at  once,  and  it  seemed  to   me 


rnOUGHTS   F.  YOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      87 

that  in  it  I  Wcas  saying  a  very  great  deal  that  was 
important.  But  toil  as  I  would  over  it,  and  in  spite  of 
the  abundance  of  materials,  in  spite  of  the  superfluity 
of  them  even,  I  could  not  get  through  that  essay  ;  and 
so  I  did  not  finish  it  until  the  present  year,  because 
of  the  irritation  under  the  influence  of  which  I  wrote, 
because  I  had  not  gone  through  all  that  was  requisite 
in  order  to  bear  myself  properly  in  relation  to  this 
essay,  because  I  did  not  simply  and  clearly  acknowl- 
edge the  cause  of  all  this,  —  a  very  simple  cause, 
which  had  its  root  in  myself. 

In  the  domain  of  morals,  one  very  remarkable  and 
too  little  noted  phenomenon  presents  itself. 

If  I  tell  a  man  who  knows  nothing  about  it,  what  I 
know  about  geology,  astronomy,  history,  physics,  and 
mathematics,  that  man  receives  entirely  new  informa- 
tion, and  he  never  says  to  me ;  ''  Well',  what  is  there 
new  in  that?  Everybody  knows  that,  and  I  have 
known  it  this  long  while."  But  tell  that  same  man  the 
most  lofty  truth,  expressed  in  the  clearest,  most  con- 
cise manner,  as  it  has  never  before  been  expressed, 
and  every  ordinary  individual,  especially  one  who 
takes  no  particular  interest  in  moral  questions,  or, 
even  more,  one  to  whom  the  moral  truth  stated  by  you 
is  displeasing,  will  infallibly  say  to  you:  ••'  Well,  who 
does  not  know  that?  That  was  known  and  said  long 
ago."  It  really  seems  to  him  that  this  has  been  said 
long  ago  and  in  just  this  way.  Only  those  to  whom 
moral  truths  are  dear  and  important  know  how  impor- 
tant and  precious  they  are,  and  with  what  prolonged 
labor  the  elucidation,  the  simplification,  of  moral  truths, 
their  transit  from  the  state  of  a  misty,  indefinitely 
recognized  supposition,  and  desire,  from  indistinct, 
incoherent  expressions,  to  a  firm  and  definite  expres- 


88  WHAT  TO  DOf 

sion,  unavoidably  demanding  corresponding  conces- 
sions, are  attained. 

We  have  all  become  accustomed  to  think  that  moral 
instruction  is  a  most  absurd  and  tiresome  thing,  in 
which  there  can  be  nothing  new  or  interesting ;  and 
yet  all  human  life,  together  with  all  the  varied  and 
complicated  activities,  apparently  independent,  of 
morality,  both  governmental  and  scientific,  and  artistic 
and  commercial,  has  no  other  aim  than  the  greater  and 
greater  elucidation,  confirmation,  simplification,  and 
accessibility  of  moral  truth. 

I  remember  that  I  was  once  walking  along  the  street 
in  Moscow,  and  in  front  of  me  I  saw  a  man  come  out 
and  gaze  attentively  at  the  stones  of  the  sidewalk,  after 
which  he  selected  one  stone,  seated  himself  on  it,  and 
began  to  plane  (as  it  seemed  to  me)  or  to  rub  it  with 
the  greatest  diligence  and  force.  ''  What  is  he  doing 
to  the  sidewalk  ?  "  I  said  to  myself.  On  going  close  to 
him,  I  saw  what  the  man  was  doing.  He  was  a  young 
fellow  from  a  meat-shop ;  he  was  whetting  his  knife 
on  the  stone  of  the  pavement.  He  was  not  thinking 
at  all  of  the  stones  when  he  scrutinized  them,  still  less 
was  he  thinking  of  them  when  he  was  accomplishing 
his  task :  he  was  whetting  his  knife.  He  was  obliged 
to  whet  his  knife  so  that  he  could  cut  the  meat; 
but  to  me  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  doing  some- 
thing to  the  stones  of  the  sidewalk.  Just  so  it  appears 
as  though  humanity  were  occupied  with  commerce, 
conventions,  wars,  sciences,  arts ;  but  only  one  busi- 
ness is  of  importance  to  it,  and  with  only  one  business 
is  it  occupied :  it  is  elucidating  to  itself  those  moral 
laws  by  wiiich  it  lives.  The  moral  laws  are  already 
in  existence ;  humanity  is  only  ecluidating  them,  and 
this  elucidation  seems  unimportant  and  imperceptible 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      89 

for  any  one  who  has  no  need  of  moral  laws,  who  does 
not  wish  to  live  by  them.  But  this  elucidation  of 
the  moral  law  is  not  only  weighty,  but  the  only  real 
business  of  all  humanity.  This  elucidation  is  imper- 
ceptible just  as  the  difference  between  the  dull  and 
the  sharp  knife  is  imperceptible.  The  knife  is  a  knife 
all  the  same,  and  for  a  person  who  is  not  obliged  to  cut 
any  thing  with  this  knife,  the  difference  between  the 
dull  and  the  sharp  one  is  imperceptible.  For  the  man 
who  has  come  to  an  understanding  that  his  whole  life 
depends  on  the  greater  or  less  degree  of  sharpness  in 
the  knife, -^  for  such  a  man,  every  whetthig  of  it  is 
weighty,  and  that  man  knows  that  the  knife  is  a  knife 
only  when  it  is  sharp,  when  it  cuts  that  which  needs 
cutting. 

This  is. what  happened  to  me,  when  I  began  to  write 
my  essay.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  knew  all  about  it, 
that  I  understood  every  thing  connected  with  those 
questions  which  had  produced  on  me  the  impressions 
of  the  L3^apinsky  house,  and  the  census ;  but  when  I 
attempted  to  take  account  of  them  and  to  demonstrate 
them,  it  turned  out  that  the  knife  would  not  cut,  and 
that  it  must  be  whetted.  And  it  is  only  now,  after 
the  lapse  of  three  years,  that  I  have  felt  that  my  knife 
is  sufficiently  sliarp,  so  that  I  can  cut  what  I  choose. 
I  have  learned  very  little  that  is  new.  My  thoughts 
are  all  exactly  the  same,  but  they  were  duller  then,  and 
they  all  scattered  and  would  not  unite  on  any  thing ; 
there  was  no  edge  to  them  ;  they  would  not  concen- 
trate on  one  point,  on  the  simplest  and  clearest  decis- 
ion, as  they  have  now  concentrated  themselves. 


90  WHAT  TO  not 


XIII. 

I  REMEMBER  that  during  the  entire  period  of  my  im- 
successful  efforts  at  helping  the  inhabitants  of  the  city, 
I  presented  to  myself  the  aspect  of  a  man  who  should 
attempt  to  drag  another  man  out  of  a  swamp  while  he 
himself  was  standing  on  the  same  unstable  ground. 
Every  attempt  of  mine  had  made  me  conscious  of  the 
untrustworthy  character  of  the  soil  on  which  I  stood. 
I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  swamp  myself,  but  this  con- 
sciousness did  not  cause  me  to  look  more  narrowly  at 
my  own  feet,  in  order  to  learn  upon  what  I  was  stand- 
ing ;  I  kept  on  seeking  some  external  means,  outside 
myself,  of  helping  the  existing  evil. 

I  then  felt  that  my  life  was  bad,  and  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  live  in  that  manner.  But  from  the  fact  that 
my  life  was  bad,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  live  in 
that  manner,  I  did  not  draw  the  very  simple  and  clear 
deduction  that  it  was  necessary  to  amend  my  life  and 
to  live  better,  but  I  drew  the  terrible  deduction  that 
in  order  to  live  well  myself,  I  must  needs  reform  the 
lives  of  others ;  and  so  I  began  to  reform  the  lives  of 
others.  I  lived  in  the  city,  and  I  wished  to  reform  the 
lives  of  those  who  lived  in  the  city  ;  but  I  soon  became 
convinced  that  this  I  could  not  by  any  possibility  ac- 
complish, and  I  began  to  meditate  on  the  inherent 
characteristics  of  city  life  and  city  poverty. 

"  What  are  city  life  and  city  poverty?  Whj',  when 
I  am  living  in  the  city,  cannot  I  help  the  city  poor?  " 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      91 

I  asked  myself.  I  answered  myself  that  I  could  not 
do  any  thing  for  them,  in  the  first  place,  because  there 
'  were  too  many  of  them  here  in  one  spot ;  in  the  second 
place,  because  all  the  poor  people  here  were  entirely 
different  from  the  country  poor.  Why  were  there  so 
many  of  them  here  ?  and  in  what  did  their  peculiarity, 
as  opposed  to  the  country  poor,  consist?  There  was 
one  and  the  same  answer  to  both  questions.  There 
were  a  great  msmy  of  them  here,  because  here  all  those 
people  who  have  no  means  of  subsistence  in  the  coun- 
try collect  around  the  rich  ;  and  their  peculiarity  lies  in 
this,  that  they  are  not  people  who  have  come  from  the 
country  to  support  themselves  in  the  city  (if  there  are 
any  city  paupers,  those  who  have  been  born  here,  and 
whose  fathers  and  grandfathers  were  born  here,  then 
those  fathers  and  grandfathers  came  hither  for  the  pur- 
pose of  earning  their  livelihood) .  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  :  to  earn  one's  livelihood  in  the  city?  In  the 
words  *' to  earn  one's  livelihood  in  the  city,"  there  is 
something  strange,  resembling  a  jest,  when  you  reflect 
on  their  significance.  How  is  it  that  people  go  from 
the  country,  —  that  is  to  say,  from  the  places  where 
there  are  forests,  meadows,  grain,  and  cattle,  where  all 
the  wealth  of  the  earth  lies,  —  to  earn  their  livelihood 
in  a  place  where  there  are  neither  trees,  nor  grass,  nor 
even  land,  and  only  stones  and  dust?  What  is  the 
significance  of  the  words  "to  earn  a  livelihood  in 
the  city,"  which  are  in  such  constant  use,  both  by  those 
who  earn  the  livelihood,  and  by  those  who  furnish 
it,  as  though  it  were  something  perfectly  clear  and 
comprehensible  ? 

I  recall  the  hundreds  and  thousands  of  city  people, 
both  those  who  live  well  and  the  needy,  with  whom 
I  have  conversed  on  the  reason  why  they  came  hither : 


92  WHAT  TO  DOf 

and  all  without  exception  said,  that  they  had  come 
from  the  country  to  earn  their  living ;  that  in  Moscow, 
where  people  neither  sow  nor  reap,  —  that  in  Moscow 
there  is  plenty  of  every  thing,  and  that,  therefore,  it  is 
only  in  Moscow  that  they  can  earn  the  money  which 
they  require  in  the  country  for  bread  and  a  cottage  and 
a  horse,  and  articles  of  prime  necessity.  But  assuredly, 
in  the  country  lies  the  source  of  all  riches ;  there  only 
is  real  wealth,  —  bread,  and  forests,  and  horses,  and 
every  thing.  And  why,  above  all,  take  away  from  the 
country  that  which  dwellers  in  the  country  need,  — 
flour,  oats,  horses,  and  cattle? 

Hundreds  of  times  did  I  discuss  this  matter  with 
peasants  living  in  town ;  and  from  my  discussions 
with  them,  and  from  my  observations,  it  has  been  made 
apparent  to  me,  that  the  congregation  of  country 
people  in  the  city  is  partly  indispensable  because  they 
cannot  otherwise  support  themselves,  partly  voluntary, 
and  that  they  are  attracted  to  the  city  by  the  tempta- 
tions of  the  city. 

It  is  true,  that  the  position  of  the  peasant  is  such 
that,  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  demands  made  on  him 
in  the  country,  he  cannot  extricate  himself  otherwise 
than  by  selling  the  grain  and  the  cattle  which  he 
knows  will  be  indispensable  to  him  ;  and  he  is  forced, 
whether  he  will  or  no,  to  go  to  the  city  in  order 
there  to  win  back  his  bread.  But  it  is  also  true,  that 
the  luxury  of  city  life,  and  the  comparative  ease  with 
which  money  is  there  to  be  earned,  attract  him  thither ; 
and  under  the  pretext  of  gaining  his  living  in  the 
town,  he  betakes  himself  thither  in  order  that  he  may 
have  lighter  work,  better  food,  and  drink  tea  three 
times  a  day,  and  dress  well,  and  even  lead  a  drunken 
and  dissolute   life.     The   cause  of   both  is  identical, 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      93 

—  the  transfer  of  the  riches  of  the  producers  into  the 
hands  of  non-producers,  and  the  accumuhition  of  wealth 
in  the  cities.  And,  in  point  of  fact,  when  autumn 
has  come,  all  wealth  is  collected  in  the  country.  And 
instantly'  there  arise  demands  for  taxes,  recruits,  tlie 
temptations  of  vodka,  weddings,  festivals  ;  pett}'  i)ed- 
lers  make  their  rounds  through  the  villages,  and 
all  sorts  of  other  temptations  crop  up  ;  and  by  this 
road,  or,  if  not,  by  some  other,  wealth  of  the  most 
varied  description — vegetables,  calves,  cows,  horses, 
pigs,  chickens,  eggs,  butter,  hemp,  flax,  rye,  oats, 
buckwheat,  pease,  hempseed.  and  flaxseed  —  all  passes 
into  the  hands  of  strangers,  is  carried  off  to  the  towns, 
and  thence  to  the  capitals.  The  countryman  is  obliged 
to  surrender  all  this  to  satisfy  the  demands  that  are 
made  upon  him,  and  temptations ;  and,  having  parted 
with  his  wealth,  he  is  left  with  an  insufficiency,  and 
he  is  forced  to  go  whither  his  wealth  has  been  carried  ; 
and  there  he  tries,  in  part,  to  obtain  the  money 
which  he  requires  for  his  first  needs  in  the  country, 
and  in  part,  being  himself  led  away  by  the  blandish- 
ments of  the  city,  he  enjoys,  in  company  with  others, 
the  wealth  that  has  there  accumulated.  Everywhere, 
throughout  the  whole  of  Russia,  —  jes,  and  not  in 
Russia  alone,  I  think,  but  throughout  the  whole  world, 

—  the  same  thing  goes  on.  The  wealth  of  the  rustic 
producers  passes  into  the  hands  of  traders ,  landed  pro- 
prietors, officials,  and  factory-owners  ;  and  the  i)eople 
who  receive  this  wealth  wish  to  enjoy  it.  But  it  is  only 
in  the  city  that  they  can  derive  full  enjoyment  from 
this  wealth.  In  the  country,  in  the  first  place,  it  is 
difficult  to  satisfy  all  the  requirements  of  rich  people, 
on  account  of  the  sparseness  of  the  population  ;  banks, 
shops,  hotels,  every  sort  of  artisan,  and  all  sorts  of 


94  WHAT  TO  DOf 

sociiil  diversions,  do  not  exist  there.  In  the  second 
place,  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  procured  by  wealth  — 
vanity,  the  desire  to  astonish  and  outshine  other  peo- 
ple—  is  difficult  to  satisfy  in  the  country;  and  this, 
again,  on  account  of  the  lack  of  inhabitants.  In  the 
country,  there  is  no  one  to  appreciate  elegance,  no  one 
to  be  astonished.  Whatever  adornments  in  the  way 
of  pictures  and  bronzes  the  dweller  in  the  country  may 
procure  for  his  house,  whatever  equipages  and  toilets 
he  may  provide,  there  is  no  one  to  see  them  and  envy 
them,  and  the  peasants  cannot  judge  of  them.  [And, 
in  the  third  place,  luxury  is  even  disagreeable  and 
dangerous  in  the  country  for  the  man  possessed  of  a 
conscience  and  fear.  It  is  an  awkward  and  delicate 
matter,  in  the  country,  to  have  baths  of  milk,  or  to  feed 
your  puppies  on  it,  when  directly  beside  you  there 
are  children  who  have  no  milk ;  it  is  an  awkward  and 
delicate  matter  to  build  pavilions  and  gardens  in  the 
midst  of  people  who  live  in  cots  banked  up  with  dung, 
which  they  have  no  means  of  warming.  In  the  country 
there  is  no  one  to  keep  the  stupid  peasants  in  order, 
and  in  their  lack  of  cultivation  they  might  disarrange 
all  this.]  1 

And  accordingly  rich  people  congregate,  and  join 
themselves  to  other  rich  people  with  similar  require- 
ments, in  the  city,  where  the  gratification  of  every 
luxurious  taste  is  carefully  protected  by  a  numerous 
police  force.  Well-rooted  inhabitants  of  the  city  of 
this  sort,  are  the  governmental  officials ;  every  descrip- 
tion of  artisan  and  professional  man  has  sprung  up 
around  them,  and  with  them  the  wealthy  join  their 
forces.  All  that  a  rich  man  has  to  do  there  is  to  take 
a  fancy  to  a  thing,  and  he  can  get  it.     It  is  also  more 

1  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      95 

agreeable  for  a  rich  man  to  live  there,  because  there  he 
can  gratify  his  vanity ;  there  is  some  one  with  whom 
he  can  vie  in  luxury ;  there  is  some  one  to  astonish, 
and  there  is  some  one  to  outshine.  But  the  principal 
reason  why  it  is  more  comfortable  in  the  city  for  a  rich 
man  is  that  formerly,  in  the  country,  his  luxury  made 
him  awkward  and  uneasy  ;  while  now,  on  the  contrary, 
it  would  be  awkward  for  him  not  to  live  luxuriously, 
not  to  live  like  all  his  peers  around  him.  That  which 
seemed  dreadful  and  awkward  in  the  country,  here 
appears  to  be  just  as  it  should  be.  [Rich  people  con- 
gregate in  the  city,  and  there,  under  the  protection  of 
the  authorities,  they  calmly  demand  every  thing  that 
is  brought  thither  from  the  country.  And  the  country- 
man is,  in  some  measure,  compelled  to  go  thither, 
where  this  uninterrupted  festival  of  the  wealthy  which 
demands  all  that  is  taken  from  him  is  in  progress,  in 
order  to  feed  upon  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  tables 
of  the  rich  ;  and  partly,  also,  because,  when  he  beholds 
the  care-free,  luxurious  life,  approved  and  protected  by 
everybody,  he  himself  becomes  desirous  of  regulating 
his  life  in  such  a  way  as  to  work  as  little  as  possible,  and 
to  make  as  much  use  as  possible  of  the  labors  of  others. 
And  so  he  betakes  himself  to  the  city,  and  finds 
employment  about  the  wealthy,  endeavoring,  by  every 
means  in  his  power,  to  entice  from  them  that  which  he 
is  in  need  of,  and  conforming  to  all  those  conditions 
which  the  wealthy  impose  upon  him.  He  assists  in 
the  gratification  of  all  their  whims ;  he  serves  the  rich 
man  in  the  bath  and  in  the  inn,  and  as  cab-driver  and 
prostitute,  and  he  makes  for  him  equipages,  toys,  and 
fashions ;  and  he  gradually  learns  from  the  rich  man 
to  live  in  the  same  manner  as  the  latter,  not  by  labor, 
but  by  divers  tricks,  getting  away  from  others   the 


96  WfLir   TO  DO? 

wealth  which  they  have  heaped  together;  and  he 
becomes  corrupt,  and  goes  to  destruction.  And  this 
colony,  demoralized  by  city  wealth,  constitutes  that 
city  pauperism  which  1  desired  to  aid  and  could  not. 

All  that  is  necessary,  in  fact,  is  for  us  to  reflect  on 
the  condition  of  these  inhabitants  of  the  country,  who 
have  removed  to  the  city  in  order  to  earn  their  bread 
or  their  taxes,  —  when  they  behold,  everywhere  around 
them,  thousands  squandered  madly,  and  hundreds  won 
by  the  easiest  possible  means  ;  when  they  themselves  are 
forced  by  heavy  toil  to  earn  kopeks,  —  and  we  shall  be 
amazed  thc.t  all  these  people  should  remain  working 
people,  and  that  they  do  not  all  of  them  take  to  an 
easier  method  of  getting  gain,  —  by  trading,  peddling, 
acting  as  middlemen,  begging,  vice,  rascality,  and  even 
robbery.  Why,  we,  the  participants  in  that  never- 
ceasing  orgy  which  goes  on  in  town,  can  become  so 
accustomed  to  our  life,  that  it  seems  to  us  perfectly 
natural  to  dwell  alone  in  five  huge  apartments,  heated 
by  a  quantity  of  beech  logs  sufficient  to  cook  the  food 
for  and  to  warm  twenty  families  ;  to  drive  half  a  verst 
with  two  trotters  and  two  men-servants ;  to  cover  the 
polished  wood  floor  with  rugs ;  and  to  si)end,  I  will 
not  say,  on  a  ball,  five  or  ten  thousand  rubles,  and 
twenty-five  thousand  on  a  Christmas-tree.  But  a  man 
who  is  in  need  of  ten  rubles  to  buy  bread  for  his 
family,  or  whose  last  sheep  has  been  seized  for  a  tax- 
debt  of  seven  rubles,  and  who  cannot  raise  those 
rubles  by  hard  labor,  cannot  grow  accustomed  to  this. 
We  think  that  all  this  appears  natural  to  poor  people  ; 
there  are  even  some  ingenuous  persons  who  say  in  all 
seriousness,  that  the  poor  are  very  grateful  to  us  for 
supporting  them  by  this  luxury.]  ^ 

*  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  authorized  edition. 


Tiiouanrs  evoked  by  census  of  moscow.    97 

But  poor  people  are  not  devoid  of  human  under- 
standing simply  because  they  are  poor,  and  they  judge 
precisely  as  we  do.  As  the  first  thought  that  occurs 
to  us  on  hearing  that  such  and  such  a  man  has  gam- 
bled away  or  squandered  ten  or  twenty  thousand 
rubles,  is:  '■'What  a  foolish  and  worthless  fellow  he 
is  to  uselessly  squander  so  much  money!  and  what  a 
good  use  I  could  have  made  of  that  money  in  a  build- 
ing which  I  have  long  been  in  need  of,  for  the  im- 
provement of  my  estate,  and  so  forth  !  "  —  just  so  do 
the  poor  judge  when  they  behold  the  wealth  which 
they  need,  not  for  caprices,  but  for  the  satisfaction  of 
their  actual  necessities,  of  which  the}'  are  frequently 
deprived,  flung  madly  away  before  their  eyes.  We 
make  a  very  great  mistake  when  we  think  that  the 
poor  can  judge  thus,  reason  thus,  and  look  on  indiffer- 
enth'  at  the  luxury  which  surrounds  them. 

They  never  have  acknowledged,  and  they  never  will 
acknowledge,  that  it  can  be  just  for  some  people  to 
live  always  in  idleness,  and  for  other  peo[)le  to  fast 
and  toil  incessantly ;  but  at  first  they  are  amazed  and 
insulted  by  this ;  then  they  scrutinize  it  more  atten- 
tively, and,  seeing  that  these  arrangements  are  recog- 
nized as  legitimate,  they  endeavor  to  free  themselves 
fi-om  toil,  and  to  take  part  in  the  idleness.  Some 
succef  d  in  this,  and  they  become  just  such  carousers 
themselves ;  others  gradually  prepare  themselves  for 
this  state  ;  others  still  fail,  and  do  not  attain  their 
goal,  and,  having  lost  the  habit  of  work,  they  fill  up 
the  disorderly  houses  and  the  night-lodging  houses. 

Two  years  ago,  we  took  from  the  country  a  peasant 
boy  to  v/uit  on  table.  For  some  reason,  he  did  notgvt 
on  well  with  the  footman,  and  ho  was  sont  away  :  he 
enter*;*!  the  service  of  a  merchant,  won  the  favor  of  his 


98  WHAT  TO  not 

master,  and  now  he  goes  about  with  a  vest  and  a  watch- 
chain,  and  dandified  boots.  In  his  place,  we  took  an- 
other peasant,  a  married  man :  he  became  a  drunkard, 
and  lost  money.  We  took  a  third  :  he  took  to  drink,  and, 
having  drank  up  every  thing  he  had,  he  suffered  for  a 
long  while  from  poverty  in  the  night-lodging  house.  An 
old  man,  the  cook,  took  to  drink  and  fell  sick.  Last  year 
a  footman  who  had  formerly  been  a  hard  drinker,  but 
who  had  refrained  from  liquor  for  fiv^e  years  in  the 
country,  while  living  in  Moscow  without  his  wife  who 
encouraged  him,  took  to  drink  again,  and  ruined  his 
whole  life.  A  young  lad  from  our  village  lives  with  my 
brother  as  a  table-servant.  His  grandfather,  a  blind 
old  man,  came  to  me  during  my  sojourn  in  the  country, 
and  asked  me  to  remind  this  grandson  that  he  was  to 
send  ten  rubles  for  the  taxes,  otherwise  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  sell  his  cow.  "  He  keeps  saying, 
'  I  must  dress  decenth^'  "  said  the  old  man:  '*  well, 
he  has  had  some  shoes  made,  and  that's  all  right ;  but 
what  does  he  want  to  set  up  a  watch  for  ? ' '  said  the 
grandfather,  expressing  in  these  words  the  most  sense- 
less supposition  that  it  was  possible  to  originate.  The 
supposition  really  was  senseless,  if  we  take  into  con- 
sideration that  the  old  man  throughout  Lent  had  eaten 
no  butter,  and  that  he  had  no  split  wood  because  he  could 
not  possibl}'  pay  one  ruble  and  twenty  kopeks  for  it ;  but 
it  turned  out  that  the  old  man's  senseless  jest  was  an 
actual  fact.  The  3'oung  fellow  came  to  see  me  in  a  fine 
black  coat,  and  shoes  for  which  he  had  paid  eight 
rubles.  He  had  recently  borrowed  ten  rubles  from  my 
brother,  and  had  spent  them  on  these  shoes.  And  my 
children,  who  have  known  the  lad  from  childhood,  told 
me  that  he  really  considers  it  indispensable  to  fit  him- 
self out  with  a  watch.     He  is  a  very  good  boy,  but 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      99 

he  thinks  that  people  will  laugh  at  him  so  long  as  he 
has  no  watch  ;  and  a  watch  is  necessary.  During  the 
present  year,  a  chamberniaid,  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
entered  into  a  connection  with  the  coachman  in  our 
house.  She  was  discharged.  An  old  woman,  the 
nurse,  with  whom  I  spoke  in  regard  to  the  unfortunate 
girl,  reminded  me  of  a  girl  whom  I  had  forgotten.  She 
too,  ten  years  ago,  during  a  brief  stay  of  ours  in  Mos- 
cow, had  become  connected  with  a  footman.  She  too 
had  been  discharged,  and  she  had  ended  in  a  disorderly 
house,  and  had  died  in  the  hospital  before  reaching  the 
age  of  twenty.  It  is  only  necessary  to  glance  about 
one,  to  be  struck  with  terror  at  the  pest  which  we  dis- 
seminate directly  by  our  luxurious  life  among  the 
people  whom  we  afterwards  wish  to  help,  not  to  men- 
tion the  factories  and  establishments  which  serve  our 
luxurious  tastes. 

[And  thus,  having  penetrated  into  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  city  poverty,  which  I  was  unable  to  remedy,  I 
perceived  that  its  prime  cause  is  this,  that  I  take  abso- 
lute necessaries  from  the  dwellers  in  the  country,  and 
carry  them  all  to  the  city.  The  second  cause  is  this,  that 
by  making  use  here,  in  the  city,  of  what  I  have  collected 
in  the  country,  I  tempt  and  lead  astray,  by  my  senseless 
luxury,  those  countr}'  people  who  come  hither  because 
of  me,  in  order  in  sg.me  way  to  get  back  what  they  have 
been  deprived  of  in  the  country.]  ^ 

1  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  authorized  edition. 


100  WHAT  TO  DOt 


XIV. 

I  REACHED  the  same  conclusion  from  a  totally  differ- 
ent point.  On  recalling  all  my  relations  with  the  cit}' 
l)Oor  during  that  time,  I  saw  that  one  of  the  reasons 
why  I  could  not  help  the  city  poor  was,  that  the  poor 
were  disingenuous  and  untruthful  with  me.  They  all 
looked  upon  me,  not  as  a  man,  but  as  means.  1  could 
not  get  near  them,  and  I  thought  that  perhaps  I  did 
not  understand  how  to  do  it ;  but  without  uprightness, 
no  help  was  possible.  How  can  one  help  a  man  who 
does  not  disclose  his  wliole  condition?  At  first  I 
blamed  them  for  this  (it  is  so  natural  to  blame  some 
one  else)  ;  but  a  remark  from  an  observing  man  named 
Siutaeff,  who  was  visiting  me  at  the  time,  explained  this 
matter  to  me,  and  showed  me  wliere  the  cause  of  my 
want  of  success  lay.  I  remember  that  Siutaeff's  remark 
struck  me  very  forcibly  at  the  time  ;  but  I  only  under- 
stood its  full  significance  later  on.  It  was  at  the  height 
of  my  self-delusion.  I  was  sitting  with  my  sister,  and 
Siutaeff  was  there  also  at  her  house  ;  and  my  sister  was 
questioning  me  about  my  undertaking.  I  told  her  about 
it,  and,  as  always  happens  when  you  have  no  faith  in 
your  course,  I  talked  to  her  with  great  enthusiasm  and 
warmth,  and  at  great  length,  of  what  I  had  done,  and 
of  what  might  possibly  come  of  it.  I  told  her  every 
thing,  —  how  we  were  going  to  keep  track  of  pau- 
perism in  Moscow,  how  we  were  going  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  orphans  and  old  people,  how  we  were  going  to 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      101 

send  away  all  country  people  who  had  grown  poor  here, 
how  we  were  going  to  smooth  the  pathway  to  reform 
for  the  depraved  ;  how,  if  only  the  matter  could  be  man- 
aged, there  would  not  be  a  man  left  in  Moscow,  who 
could  not  obtain  assistance.  My  sister  sympathized 
with  me,  and  we  discussed  it.  In  the  middle  of  our 
conversation,  1  glanced  at  Siutaeff.  As  I  was  ac- 
quainted with  his  Christian  life,  and  with  the  signili- 
cance  which  he  attached  to  charity,  I  expected  his 
sympathy,  and  spoke  so  that  he  understood  this  ;  I 
talked  to  m}^  sister,  but  directed  my  remarks  more  at 
him.  He  sat  immovable  in  his  dark  tanned  sheepskin 
jacket,  —  which  he  wore,  like  all  peasants,  both  out  of 
doors  and  in  the  house,  —  and  as  though  he  did  not  hear 
us,  but  were  thinking  of  his  own  affairs.  His  small  eyes 
did  not  twinkle,  and  seemed  to  be  turned  inwards. 
Having  finished  what  I  had  to  say,  I  turned  to  him  with 
a  query  as  to  what  he  thought  of  it. 

''  It's  all  a  foolish  business,"  said  he. 

*'Why?" 

''  Your  whole  society  is  foolish,  and  nothing  good 
can  come  out  of  it,"  he  repeated  with  conviction. 

"Why  not?  Why  is  it  a  stupid  business  to  help 
thousands,  at  any  rate  hundreds,  of  unfortunate  beings? 
Is  it  a  bad  thing,  according  to  the  Gospel,  to  clothe 
the  naked,  and  feed  the  hungry?  " 

"  I  know,  I  know,  but  that  is  not  what  you  are  do- 
ing. Is  it  necessary  to  render  assistance  in  that  way  ? 
You  are  walking  along,  and  a  man  asks  you  for  twenty 
kopeks.  You  give  them  to  him.  Is  that  alms  ?  Do 
you  give  spiritual  alms, — teach  him.  But  what  is  it 
that  you  have  given?  It  was  only  for  the  sake  of 
getting  rid  of  him." 

*'  No  ;  and,  besides,  that  is  not  what  we  are.  talking 


102  WHAT  TO  DO? 

about.     We  want  to  know  about  this  need,  and  then 
to  help  by  both  money  and  deeds  ;  and  to  find  work." 

^'  You  can  do  nothing  with  those  people  in  that 
way." 

"  So  they  are  to  be  allowed  to  die  of  hunger  and 
cold?" 

''Why  should  they  die?  Are  there  many  of  them 
there?" 

"What,  many  of  them?"  said  I,  thinking  that  he 
looked  at  the  matter  so  lightly  because  he  was  not 
aware  how  vast  was  the  number  of  these  people. 

"  Why,  do  you  know,"  said  I,  "  I  believe  that  there 
are  twentj"  thousand  of  these  cold  and  hungry  people 
in  Moscow.  And  how  about  Petersburg  and  the  other 
cities?" 

He  smiled. 

"Twenty  thousand!  And  how  many  households 
are  there  in  Russia  alone,  do  you  think?  Are  there  a 
million?  " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"What  then?"  and  his  eyes  flashed,  and  he  grew 
animated.  "Come,  let  us  divide  them  among  our- 
selves. I  am  not  rich,  I  will  take  two  persons  on  the 
spot.  There  is  the  lad  whom  you  took  into  your 
kitchen ;  I  invited  him  to  come  to  my  house,  and  he 
did  not  come.  Were  there  ten  times  as  many,  let  us 
divide  them  among  us.  Do  you  take  some,  and  I  will 
take  some.  We  will  work  together.  He  will  see  how 
I  work,  and  he  will  learn.  He  will  see  how  I  live,  and 
we  will  sit  down  at  the  same  table  together,  and  he  will 
hear  my  words  and  3'ours.  This  charity  society  of 
yours  is  nonsense." 

These  simple  words  impressed  me.  I  could  not  but 
admit  their  justice  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  at  that  time. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      103 

that,  in  spite  of  their  truth,  still  that  which  I  had 
planned  might  possibly  prove  of  service.  But  the 
further  I  carried  this  business,  the  more  I  associated 
with  the  poor,  the  more  frequently  did  this  remark 
recur  to  my  mind,  and  the  greater  was  the  significance 
which  it  acquired  for  me. 

I  arrive  in  a  costly  fur  coat,  or  with  my  horses ;  or 
the  man  who  lacks  shoes  sees  my  two-thousand-ruble 
apartments.  He  sees  how,  a  little  while  ago,  I  gave 
five  rubles  without  begrudging  them,  merely  because  1 
took  a  whim  to  do  so.  He  surely  knows  that  if  I  give 
away  rubles  in  that  manner,  it  is  only  because  I  have 
hoarded  up  so  many  of  them,  that  I  have  a  great  many 
superfluous  ones,  which  I  not  only  have  not  given  away, 
but  which  I  have  easily  taken  from  other  people.  [What 
else  could  he  see  in  me  but  one  of  those  persons  who 
have  got  possession  of  what  belongs  to  him?  And 
what  other  feeling  can  he  cherish  towards  me,  than  a 
desire  to  obtain  from  me  as  many  of  those  rubles, 
which  have  been  stolen  from  him  and  from  others,  as 
possible?  I  wish  to  get  close  to  him,  and  I  complain 
that  he  is  not  frank  ;  and  here  I  am,  afraid  to  sit  down 
on  his  bed  for  fear  of  getting  lice,  or  catching  something 
infectious ;  and  I  am  afraid  to  admit  him  to  my  room, 
and  he,  coming  to  me  naked,  waits,  generally  in  the 
vestibule,  or,  if  very  fortunate,  in  the  ante-chamber. 
And  yet  I  declare  that  he  is  to  blame  because  I  cannot 
enter  into  intimate  relations  with  him,  and  because  he 
is  not  frank. 

Let  the  sternest  man  try  the  experiment  of  eating  a 
dinner  of  five  courses  in  the  midst  of  people  who  have 
had  very  little  or  nothing  but  black  bread  to  eat.  Not 
a  man  will  have  the  spirit  to  eat,  and  to  watch  how  the 
hungry  lick  their  chops  around  him.     Hence,  then,  in 


104  WHAT  TO  not 

order  to  eat  daintily  amid  the  famishing,  the  first  indis- 
pensable requisite  is  to  hide  from  them,  in  order  that 
they  may  not  see  it.  Tliis  is  the  very  thing,  and  the 
first  thing,  that  we  do. 

And  I  took  a  simpler  view  of  our  life,  and  perceived 
that  an  approach  to  the  poor  is  not  difficult  to  us 
through  accidental  causes,  but  that  we  deliberately 
arrange  our  lives  in  such  a  fashion  so  that  this  approach 
may  be  rendered  difficult. 

Not  only  this ;  but,  on  taking  a  survey  of  our  life, 
of  the  life  of  the  wealthy,  I  saw  that  every  thing  which 
is  considered  desirable  in  that  life  consists  in,  or  is 
inseparably  bound  up  with,  the  idea  of  getting  as  far 
away  from  the  poor  as  possible.  In  fact,  all  the  efforts 
of  our  well-endowed  life,  beginning  with  our  food, 
dress,  houses,  our  cleanliness,  and  even  down  to  our 
education,  —  every  thing  has  for  its  chief  object,  the 
separation  of  ourselves  from  the  poor.  In  procuring 
this  seclusion  of  ourselves  by  impassable  barriers,  we 
spend,  to  put  it  mildly,  nine-tenths  of  our  wealth.  The 
first  thing  that  a  man  who  has  grown  wealthy  does  is 
to  stop  eating  out  of  one  bowl,  and  he  sets  up  crockery, 
and  fits  himself  out  with  a  kitchen  and  servants.  And 
he  feeds  his  servants  high,  too,  so  that  their  mouths 
may  not  water  over  his  dainty  viands ;  and  he  eats 
alone ;  and  as  eating  in  solitude  is  wearisome,  he  plans 
how  he  may  improve  his  food  and  deck  his  table  ;  and 
the  very  manner  of  taking  his  food  (dinner)  becomes 
a  matter  for  pride  and  vain  glory  with  him,  and  his 
manner  of  taking  his  food  becomes  for  him  a  means  of 
sequestering  himself  from  other  men.  A  rich  man 
cannot  think  of  such  a  thing  as  inviting  a  poor  man  to 
his  table.  A  man  must  know  how  to  conduct  ladies 
to  table,  how  to  bow,  to  sit  down,  to  eat,  to  rinse  out 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      105 

the  mouth  ;  and  only  rich  people  know  all  these  things. 
The  same  thing  occurs  in  the  matter  of  clothing.  If  a 
rich  man  were  to  wear  ordinary  clothing,  simply  for 
the  purpose  of  protecting  his  body  from  the  cold,  —  a 
short  jacket,  a  coat,  felt  and  leather  boots,  an  under- 
jacket,  trousers,  shirt,  —  he  would  require  but  very 
little,  and  he  would  not  be  unable,  when  he  had  two 
coats,  to  give  one  of  them  to  a  man  who  had  none. 
But  the  rich  man  begins  by  procuring  for  himself 
clothing  which  consists  entirely  of  separate  pieces, 
and  which  is  fit  only  for  separate  occasions,  and  which 
is,  therefore,  unsuited  to  the  poor  man.  He  has  frock- 
coats,  vests,  pea-jackets,  lacquered  boots,  cloaks,  shoes 
with  French  heels,  garments  that  are  chopped  up  into 
bits  to  conform  with  the  fashion,  hunting-coats,  travel- 
ling-coats, and  so  on,  which  can  only  be  used  under 
conditions  of  existence  far  removed  from  poverty. 
And  his  clothing  also  furnishes  him  with  a  means  of 
keeping  at  a  distance  from  the  poor.  The  same  is  the 
case,  and  even  more  clearly,  with  his  dwelling.  In 
order  that  one  may  live  alone  in  ten  rooms,  it  is  indis- 
pensable that  those  who  live  ten  in  one  room  should 
not  see  it.  The  richer  a  man  is,  the  more  difficult  is 
he  of  access ;  the  more  porters  there  are  between  him 
and  people  who  are  not  rich,  the  more  impossible  is  it 
to  conduct  a  poor  man  over  rugs,  and  seat  him  in  a 
satin  chair. 

The  case  is  the  same  with  the  means  of  locomotion. 
The  peasant  driving  in  a  cart,  or  a  sledge,  must  be  a 
very  ill-tempered  man  when  he  will  not  give  a  pedes- 
trian a  lift ;  and  there  is  both  room  for  this  and  a 
possibility  of  doing  it.  But  the  richer  the  equipage, 
the  farther  is  a  man  from  all  possibility  of  giving  a 
seat  to  any  person  whatsoever.    It  is  even  said  plainly, 


106  WHAT  TO  DO? 

that  the  most  stylish  equipages  are  those  meant  to  hold 
only  one  person. 

It  is  precisely  the  same  thing  with  the  manner  of 
life  which  is  expressed  by  the  word  cleanliness. 

Cleanliness  !  Who  is  there  that  does  not  know  peo- 
ple, especially  women,  who  reckon  this  cleanliness  in 
themselves  as  a  great  virtue?  and  who  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  devices  of  this  cleanliness,  which 
know  no  bounds,  when  it  can  command  the  labor  of 
others?  Which  of  the  people  who  have  become  rich 
has  not  experienced  in  his  own  case,  with  what  diffi- 
culty he  carefull}"  trained  himself  to  this  cleanliness, 
which  only  confirms  the  proverb,  ''  Little  white  hands 
love  other  people^s  work  '*  ? 

To-day  cleanliness  consists  in  changing  your  shirt 
once  a  day ;  to-morrow,  in  changing  it  twice  a  day. 
To-day  it  means  washing  the  face,  and  neck,  and 
hands  daily  ;  to-morrow,  the  feet ;  and  day  after  to- 
morrow, washing  the  whole  body  every  day,  and,  in 
addition  and  in  particular,  a  rubbing-down.  To-day 
the  table-cloth  is  to  serve  for  two  days,  to-morrow 
there  must  be  one  each  da}-,  then  two  a  day.  To-day 
the  footman's  hands  must  be  clean  ;  to-morrow  he 
must  wear  gloves,  and  in  his  clean  gloves  he  must 
present  a  letter  on  a  clean  salver.  And  there  are  no 
limits  to  this  cleanliness,  which  is  useless  to  everybody, 
and  objectless,  except  for  the  purpose  of  separating 
one's  self  from  others,  and  of  rendering  im^wssible  all 
intercourse  with  them,  when  this  cleanliness  is  attained 
by  the  labors  of  others. 

Moreover,  when  I  studied  the  subject,  I  became 
convinced  that  even  that  which  is  commonly  called 
education  is  the  very  same  thing. 

The  tongue  does  not  deceive ;  it   calls   by  its   real 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      107 

Dame  that  which  men  understand  under  this  name. 
What  the  people  call  culture  is :  fashionable  clothing, 
political  conversation,  clean  hands,  —  a  certain  sort  of 
cleanliness.  Of  such  a  man,  it  is  said,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  others,  that  he  is  an  educated  man.  In  a 
little  higher  circle,  what  they  call  education  means  the 
same  thing  as  with  the  people  ;  only  to  the  conditions 
of  education  are  added  playing  on  the  pianoforte,  a 
knowledge  of  French,  the  writing  of  Russian  without 
orthographical  errors,  and  a  still  greater  degree  of 
external  cleanliness.  In  a  still  more  elevated  sphere, 
education  means  all  this  with  the  addition  of  the  Kng- 
lish  language,  and  a  diploma  from  the  highest  educa- 
tional institution.  But  education  is  precisely  the  same 
thing  in  the  first,  the  second,  and  the  third  case.  Edu- 
cation consists  of  those  forms  and  acquirements  which 
are  calculated  to  separate  a  man  from  his  fellows. 
And  its  object  is  identical  with  that  of  cleanliness,  — 
to  seclude  us  from  the  herd  of  poor,  in  order  that  they, 
the  poor,  may  not  see  how  we  feast.  But  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  hide  ourselves,  and  they  do  see  us. 

And  accordingly  I  have  become  convhicod  that  the 
cause  of  the  inability  of  us  rich  peoi)le  to  help  the  poor 
of  the  city  lies  in  the  impossibility  of  our  establishing 
intercourse  with  them  ;  and  that  this  impossibility  of 
intercourse  is  caused  by  ourselves,  by  the  whole  course 
of  our  lives,  by  all  the  uses  which  we  make  of  our 
wealth.  I  have  become  convinced  that  between  us, 
the  rich  and  the  poor,  there  rises  a  wall,  reared  by  our- 
selves out  of  that  very  cleanliness  and  education,  and 
constructed  of  our  wealth  ;  and  that  in  order  to  be  in 
a  condition  to  help  the  poor,  we  must  needs,  first  of  all, 
desti-oy  this  wall ;  and  that  in  order  to  do  this,  confron- 
tation  after  JSiutaeff's  nieJiovl  should  be  rendered  pobsi- 


108  WHAT  TO  DOf 

ble,  and  the  poor  distributed  among  us.  And  from 
another  starting-point  also  I  came  to  the  same  con- 
chision  to  which  the  current  of  my  discussions  as  to 
the  causes  of  the  poverty  in  towns  had  led  me :  the 
cause  was  our  wealth.]  ^ 

»  Omitted  by  the  Censor  from  the  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      109 


XV. 


I  BEGAN  to  examine  the  matter  from  a  third  and 
wholly  personal  point  of  view.  Among  the  phenom- 
ena which  particularly  impressed  me,  during  the  period 
of  my  charitable  activity,  there  was  yet  another,  and  a 
very  strange  one,  for  which  I  could  for  a  long  time 
find  no  explanation.  It  was  this :  every  time  that  I 
chanced,  either  on  the  street  or  in  the  house,  to  give 
some  small  coin  to  a  poor  man,  without  saying  any 
thing  to  him,  I  saw,  or  thought  that  I  saw,  contentment 
and  gratitude  on  the  countenance  of  the  poor  man,  and 
I  myself  experienced  in  this  form  of  benevolence  an 
agreeable  sensation.  I  saw  that  I  had  done  what  the 
man  wished  and  expected  from  me.  But  if  I  stopped 
the  poor  man,  and  sympathetically  questioned  him 
about  his  former  and  his  present  life,  I  felt  that  it  was 
no  longer  possible  to  give  three  or  twenty  kopeks,  and 
I  began  to  fumble  in  my  purse  for  money,  in  doubt  as 
to  how  much  I  ought  to  give,  and  I  always  gave  more ; 
and  I  always  noticed  that  the  poor  man  left  me  dissat- 
isfied. But  if  I  entered  into  still  closer  intercourse 
with  the  poor  man,  then  my  doubts  as  to  how  much  to 
give  increased  also  ;  and,  no  matter  how  much  I  gave, 
the  poor  man  grew  ever  more  sullen  and  discontented. 
As  a  general  rule,  it  always  turned  out  thus,  that  if  I 
gave,  after  conversation  with  a  poor  man,  three  rubles 
or  even  more,  I  almost  always  beheld  gloom,  displeas- 
ure, and  even  ill-will,  on  the  countenance  of  the  poor 


110  WHAT  TO  not 

man  ;  and  I  have  even  known  it  to  happen,  that,  hav- 
ing received  ten  rubles,  he  went  off  without  so  much 
as  saying  '"  Thank  you,"  exactly  as  though  I  had 
insulted  him. 

And  thereupon  I  felt  awkward  and  ashamed,  and 
almost  guilt}'.  But  if  1  followed  up  a  poor  man  for 
weeks  and  months  and  years,  and  assisted  him,  and 
explained  my  views  to  him,  and  associated  with  him, 
our  relations  became  a  torment,  and  I  perceived  that 
the  man  despised  me.  And  I  felt  that  he  was  in  the 
right. 

If  I  go  out  into  the  street,  and  he,  standing  in  that 
street,  begs  of  me  among  the  number  of  the  other 
passers-by,  people  who  walk  and  ride  past  him,  and  I 
give  him  money,  I  then  am  to  him  a  passer-by,  and  a 
good,  kind  passer-by,  who  bestows  on  him  that  thread 
from  which  a  shirt  is  made  for  the  naked  man  ;  he  ex- 
pects nothing  more  than  the  thread,  and  if  I  give  it 
he  thanks  me  sincerely.  But  if  I  stop  him,  and  talk 
with  him  as  man  with  man,  I  thereby  show  him  that 
I  desire  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere  passer-by. 
If,  as  often  happens,  he  weeps  while  relating  to  me 
his  woes,  then  he  sees  in  me  no  longer  a  passer-by, 
but  that  which  I  desire  that  he  should  see  :  a  good 
man.  But  if  I  am  a  good  man,  my  goodness  cannot 
pause  at  a  twenty-kopek  piece,  nor  at  ten  rubles, 
nor  at  ten  thousand ;  it  is  impossible  to  be  a  little 
bit  of  a  good  man.  Let  us  suppose  that  I  have  given 
him  a  great  deal,  that  I  have  fitted  him  out,  dressed 
him,  set  him  on  his  feet  so  that  he  can  live  without 
outside  assistance ;  but  for  some  reason  or  other, 
through  misfortune  or  his  own  weakness  or  vices,  he 
is  again  without  that  coat,  that  linen,  and  that  money 
which  I  have  oiven  him ;  he  is  again  cold  and  hungry, 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED    BY   CENSUS   OF   MOSCOW.      Ill 

and  he  has  come  again  to  me,  —  h-o\w  can  I  refuse 
him  ?  [For  if  the  cause  of  my  action  consisted  in  the 
attainment  of  a  definite,  material  end,  on  giving  him 
so  many  rubles  or  such  and  such  a  coat  I  might  be  at 
ease  after  having  bestowed  them.  But  the  cause  of 
my  action  is  not  this :  the  cause  is,  that  I  want  to  be 
a  good  man,  that  is  to  say,  I  want  to  see  myself  in 
every  other  man.  Every  man  understands  goodness 
thus,  and  in  no  other  manner.]^  And  therefore,  if  he 
should  drink  away  every  thing  that  j'ou  had  given  him 
twenty  times,  and  if  he  should  again  be  cold  and 
hungry,  you  cannot  do  otherwise  than  give  him  more, 
if  you  are  a  good  man  ;  you  can  never  cease  giving  to 
him,  if  3'ou  have  more  than  he  has.  And  if  you  draw 
back,  you  will  thereby  show  that  every  thing  that  you 
have  done,  you  have  done  not  because  you  are  a  good 
man,  but  because  you  wished  to  appear  a  good  man 
in  his  sight,  and  in  the  sight  of  men. 

And  thus  in  the  case  with  the  men  from  whom  I 
chanced  to  recede,  to  whom  I  ceased  to  give,  and,  by 
this  action,  denied  good,  I  experienced  a  torturing 
sense  of  shame. 

What  sort  of  shame  was  this?  This  shame  I  had 
experienced  in  the  Lyapinsky  house,  and  both  before 
and  after  that  in  the  country,  when  I  happened  to  give 
money  or  any  thing  else  to  the  poor,  and  in  my  expedi- 
tions among  the  city  poor. 

A  mortifying  incident  that  occurred  to  me  not  long 
ago  vividly  reminded  me  of  that  shame,  and  led  me  to 
an  explanation  of  that  shame  which  I  had  felt  when 
bestowing  money  on  the  poor. 

[This  happened  in  the  country.  I  wanted  twenty 
kopeks  to  give  to  a  poor  pilgrim  ;  I  sent  my  son  to 

^  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  autiiorized  edition. 


112  WEAT  TO  DO? 

borrow  them  from  some  one ;  he  brought  the  pilgrim  a 
twenty-kopek  piece,  and  tokl  me  that  he  had  borrowed 
it  from  the  cook.  A  few  days  afterwards  some  more 
pilgrims  arrived,  and  again  I  was  in  want  of  a  twenty- 
kopek  piece.  I  had  a  ruble  ;  I  recollected  that  I  was  in 
debt  to  the  cook,  and  I  went  to  the  kitchen,  hoping  to 
get  some  more  small  change  from  the  cook.  I  said: 
*'  I  borrowed  a  twenty-kopek  piece  from  you,  so  here  is 
a  ruble."  I  had  not  finished  speaking,  when  the  cook 
called  in  his  wife  from  another  room  :  "  Take  it,  Para- 
sha,"  said  he.  I,  supposing  that  she  understood  what 
I  wanted,  handed  her  the  ruble.  I  must  state  that  the 
cook  had  only  lived  with  us  a  week,  and,  though  I  had 
seen  his  wife,  I  had  never  spoken  to  her.  I  was  just 
on  the  point  of  saying  to  her  that  she  was  to  give  me 
some  small  coins,  when  she  bent  swiftly  down  to  my 
hand,  and  tried  to  kiss  it,  evidently  imagining  that  I 
had  given  her  the  ruble.  I  muttered  something,  and 
quitted  the  kitchen.  I  was  ashamed,  ashamed  to  the 
verge  of  torture,  as  I  had  not  been  for  a  long  time.  I 
shrank  together ;  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  making 
grimaces,  and  I  groaned  with  shame  as  I  fled  from  the 
kitchen.  This  utterly  unexpected,  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  utterly  undeserved  shame,  made  a  special  impres- 
sion on  me,  because  it  was  a  long  time  since  I  had  been 
mortified,  and  because  I,  as  an  old  man,  had  so  lived, 
it  seemed  to  me,  that  I  had  not  merited  this  shame.  I 
was  forcibly  struck  by  this.  I  told  the  members  of 
my  household  about  it,  I  told  my  acquaintances,  and 
they  all  agreed  that  they  should  have  felt  the  same. 
And  I  began  to  reflect :  why  had  this  caused  me  such 
shame?  To  this,  something  which  had  happened  to  me 
in  Moscow  furnished  me  with  an  answer. 

I  meditated  on  that  incident,  and  the  shame  which  I 


T no U GUTS   EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      113 

had  experienced  in  the  presence  of  the  cook's  wife  was 
explained  to  me,  and  all  those  sensations  of  mortifica- 
tion which  I  had  undergone  during  the  course  of  my 
Moscow  benevolence,  and  which  I  now  feel  incessantly 
when  I  have  occasion  to  give  an}^  one  any  thing  except 
that  petty  alms  to  the  poor  and  to  pilgrims,  which  I 
have  become  accustomed  to  bestow,  and  which  I  con- 
sider a  deed  not  of  charity  but  of  courtesy.  If  a  man 
asks  you  for  a  light,  3'ou  must  strike  a  match  for  him, 
if  you  have  one.  If  a  man  asks  for  three  or  for 
twenty  kopeks,  or  even  for  several  rubles,  you  must 
give  them  if  you  have  them.  This  is  an  act  of  courte- 
sy and  not  of  charity.]^ 

This  was  the  case  in  question  :  I  have  already  men- 
tioned the  two  peasants  with  whom  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  sawing  wood  three  years  ago.  One  Saturday  even- 
ing at  dusk,  I  was  returning  to  the  city  in  their  com- 
pany. They  were  going  to  their  employer  to  receis^e 
their  wages.  As  we  were  crossing  the  Dragomilovsky 
bridge,  we  met  an  old  man.  He  asked  alms,  and  I  gave 
him  twenty  kopeks.  I  gave,  and  reflected  on  the  good 
effect  which  my  charity  would  have  on  Semyon,  with 
whom  I  had  been  conversing  on  religious  topics.  Sem- 
yon, the  Vladimir  peasant,  who  had  a  wife  and  two 
children  in  Moscow,  halted  also,  pulled  round  the  skirt 
of  his  kaftan,  and  got  out  his  purse,  and  from  this 
slender  purse  he  extracted,  after  some  fumbling,  three 
kopeks,  handed  it  to  the  old  man,  and  asked  for  two 
kopeks  in  change.  The  old  man  exhibited  in  his  hand 
two  three-kopek  pieces  and  one  kopek.  Semyon  looked 
at  them,  was  about  to  take  the  kopek,  but  thought 
better  of  it,  pulled  off  his  hat,  crossed  himself,  and 
walked  on,  leaving  the  old  man  the  three-kopek  piece. 

t  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  authorized  edition. 


114  WHAT  TO   DO? 

I  was  fully  acquainted  with  Semyon's  financial  con- 
dition. He  had  no  property  at  home  at  all.  The 
money  which  he  had  laid  by  on  the  day  when  he  gave 
three  kopeks  amounted  to  six  rubles  and  fifty  kopeks. 
Accordingly,  six  rubles  and  twenty  kopeks  was  the 
sum  of  his  savings.  My  reserve  fund  was  in  the 
neighborhood  of  six  hundred  thousand.  I  had  a  wife 
and  children,  Semyon  had  a  wife  and  children.  He 
was  younger  than  I,  and  liis  children  were  fewer  in 
number  than  mine ;  but  his  children  were  small,  and 
two  of  mine  were  of  an  age  to  work,  so  that  our  posi- 
tion, with  the  exception  of  the  savings,  was  on  an 
equality ;  mine  was  somewhat  the  more  favorable,  if 
any  thing.  He  gave  three  kopeks,  I  gave  twenty. 
What  did  he  really  give,  and  what  did  I  really  give  ? 
What  ought  I  to  have  given,  in  order  to  do  what  Sem- 
yon had  done  ?  He  had  six  hundred  kopeks  ;  out  of 
this  he  gave  one,  and  afterwards  two.  I  had  six  hun- 
dred thousand  rubles.  In  order  to  give  what  Semyon 
had  given,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  give  three 
thousand  rubles,  and  ask  for  two  thousand  in  change, 
and  then  leave  the  two  thousand  with  the  old  man, 
cross  myself,  and  go  my  way,  calmly  conversing  about 
life  in  the  factories,  and  the  cost  of  liver  in  the 
Smolensk  market. 

I  thought  of  this  at  the  time  ;  but  it  was  only  long 
afterwards  that  I  was  in  a  condition  to  draw  from  this 
incident  that  deduction  which  inevitably  results  from 
it.  This  deduction  is  so  uncommon  and  so  singular, 
apparently,  that,  in  spite  of  its  mathematical  infallibil- 
ity, one  requires  time  to  grow  used  to  it.  It  does  seem 
as  though  there  must  be  some  mistake,  but  mistake 
there  is  none.  There  is  merely  the  fearful  mist  of 
error  in  which  we  live. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      115 

£This  deduction,  when  I  arrived  at  it,  and  when  I 
recognized  its  undoubted  truth,  furnished  me  with  an 
explanation  of  my  shame  in  the  presence  of  the  cook's 
wife,  and  of  all  the  poor  people  to  whom  I  had  given 
and  to  whom  I  still  give  money. 

What,  in  point  of  fact,  is  that  money  which  I  give 
to  the  poor,  and  which  the  cook's  wife  thought  I  was 
giving  to  her?  In  the  majority  of  cases,  it  is  that  por- 
tion of  my  substance  which  it  is  impossible  even  to 
express  in  figures  to  Semyon  and  the  cook's  wife,  —  it 
is  generally  one  millionth  part  or  about  that.  I  give 
so  little  that  the  bestowal  of  my  money  is  not  and 
cannot  be  a  deprivation  to  me  ;  it  is  only  a  pleasure  in 
which  I  amuse  myself  when  the  whim  seizes  me.  And 
it  was  thus  that  the  cook's  wife  understood  it.  If  I 
give  to  a  man  who  steps  in  from  the  street  one  ruble 
or  twenty  kopeks,  why  should  not  I  give  her  a  ruble 
also?  In  the  opinion  of  the  cook's  wife,  such  a  be- 
stowal of  money  is  precisely  the  same  as  the  flinging 
of  honey-cakes  to  the  people  by  gentlemen  ;  it  furnishes 
the  people  who  have  a  great  deal  of  superfluous  cash 
with  amusement.  I  was  mortified  because  the  mistake 
made  by  the  cook's  wife  demonstrated  to  me  distinctly 
the  view  which  she,  and  all  people  who  are  not  rich, 
must  take  of  me :  "He  is  flinging  away  his  folly,  i.e., 
his  unearned  money." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  what  is  my  money,  and  whence 
did  it  come  into  my  possession?  A  portion  of  it  I 
accumulated  from  the  land  which  I  received  from  my 
father.  A  peasant  sold  his  last  sheep  or  cow  in  order 
to  give  the  money  to  me.  Another  portion  of  my 
money  is  the  money  which  I  have  received  for  my 
writings,  for  my  books.  If  my  books  are  hurtful,  I 
only  lead  astray  those  who   purchase   them,  and  the 


116  WHAT  TO  no? 

money  which  I  receive  for  them  is  ill-earned  money ; 
but  if  my  books  are  useful  to  people,  then  the  issue  is 
still  more  disastrous.  I  do  not  give  them  to  people  : 
I  say,  ''  Give  me  seventeen  rubles,  and  I  will  give  them 
to  you."  And  as  the  peasant  sells  his  last  sheep,  in 
this  case  the  poor  student  or  teacher,  or  any  other 
poor  man,  deprives  himself  of  necessaries  in  order  to 
give  me  this  money.  And  so  I  have  accumulated  a 
great  deal  of  money  in  that  way,  and  what  do  I  do 
with  it?  I  take  that  money  to  the  city,  and  bestow  it 
on  the  poor,  onlj^  when  they  fulfil  my  caprices,  and 
come  hither  to  the  city  to  clean  my  sidewalk,  lamps, 
and  shoes  ;  to  work  for  me  in  factories.  And  in  return 
for  this  mone}',  I  force  from  them  every  thing  that  I 
can  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  try  to  give  them  as  little  as  possi- 
ble, and  to  receive  as  much  as  possible  from  them. 
And  all  at  once  I  begin,  quite  unexpectedly,  to  bestow 
this  money  as  a  simple  gift,  on  these  same  poor  persons, 
not  on  all,  but  on  those  to  whom  I  take  a  fancy.  Why 
should  not  every  poor  person  expect  that  it  is  quite 
possible  that  the  luck  may  fall  to  him  of  being  one  of 
those  with  whom  I  shall  amuse  myself  by  distributing 
my  superfluous  money?  And  so  all  look  upon  me  as 
the  cook's  wife  did. 

And  I  had  gone  so  far  astray  that  this  taking  of 
thousands  from  the  poor  with  one  hand,  and  this  fling- 
ing of  kopeks  with  the  other,  to  those  to  whom  the 
whim  moved  me  to  give,  I  called  good.  No  wonder 
that  I  felt  ashamed.^] 

Yes,  before  doing  good  it  was  needful  for  me  to 
stand  outside  of  evil,  in  such  conditions  that  I  might 
cease  to  do  evil.  But  my  whole  life  is  evil.  I  may 
give  away  a  hundred  thousand  rubles,  and  still  I  shall 

1  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  auChorized  edition. 


TH&UGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      117 

not  be  in  a  position  to  do  good,  because  I  shall  still 
have  five  hundred  thousand  left.  Only  when  I  have 
nothing  shall  I  be  in  a  position  to  do  the  least  particle 
of  good,  even  as  much  as  the  prostitute  did  when  she 
nursed  the  sick  woman  and  her  child  for  three  days. 
And  that  seemed  so  little  to  me !  And  I  dared  to 
think  of  good  myself  !  That  which,  on  the  first  occa- 
sion, told  me,  at  the  sight  of  the  cold  and  hungry  in 
the  Lyapinsky  house,  that  I  was  to  blame  for  this, 
and  that  to  live  as  I  live  is  impossible,  and  impossible, 
and  impossible,  —  that  alone  was  true. 
What,  then,  was  I  to  do? 


118  WHAT  TO  DOf 


XVI. 

It  was  hard  for  me  to  come  to  this  confession,  but 
when  I  had  come  to  it  I  was  shocked  at  the  enor  in 
which  I  had  been  living.  I  stood  np  to  my  ears  in  the 
mnd,  and  yet  I  wanted  to  drag  others  ont  of  this  mud. 

What  is  it  that  I  wish  in  reality?  I  wisli  to  do 
good  to  others.  I  wish  to  do  it  so  that  other  people 
may  not  be  cold  and  hungry,  sot  hat  others  may  live 
as  it  is  natural  for  people  to  live. 

[1  wish  this,  and  1  see  that  in  consequence  of  the 
violence,  extortions,  and  various  tricks  in  which  I  take 
part,  peo})le  who  toil  are  deprived  of  necessaries,  and 
people  who  do  not  toil,  in  whose  ranks  I  also  belong, 
enjoy  in  superabundance  the  toil  of  other  people. 

I  see  that  this  enjoyment  of  the  labors  of  others  is 
so  arranged,  that  the  more  rascally  and  complicated 
the  trickery  which  is  employed  by  the  man  himself,  or 
which  has  been  employed  by  the  i)erson  from  whom 
he  obtained  his  inheritance,  the  more  does  he  enjoy 
of  the  labors  of  others,  and  the  less  does  he  contrib- 
ute of  his  own  labor. 

First  come  the  Shtiglitzy,  Dervizy,  Morozovy,  the 
Demidoffs,  the  Yusapoffs ;  then  great  bankers,  mer- 
chants, officials,  landed  proprietors,  among  whom  I  also 
belong;  then  the  poor — very  small  traders,  dramshop- 
keepers,  usurers,  district  judges,  overseers,  teachers, 
sacristans,  clerks ;  then  house-porters,  lacke3's,  coach- 
men, water-carriers,  cab-drivers,  peddlers  ;  and  last  of 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      119 

all,  the  laboring  classes  —  factory-hands  and  peasants, 
whose  numbers  bear  the  relation  to  the  first  named  of 
ten  to  one.  I  see  that  the  life  of  nine- tenths  of  the 
working  classes  demands,  by  reason  of  its*  nature, 
application  and  toil,  as  does  every  natural  life ;  but 
that,  in  consequence  of  the  sharp  practices  which  take 
from  these  people  what  is  indispensable,  and  place 
them  in  such  oppressive  conditions,  this  life  becomes 
more  difficult  every  year,  and  more  filled  with  depriva- 
tions ;  but  our  life,  the  life  of  the  non-laboring  classes, 
thanks  to  the  co-operation  of  the  arts  and  sciences 
which  are  directed  to  this  object,  becomes  more  filled 
with  superfluities,  more  attractive  and  careful,  with 
every  year.  I  see,  that,  in  our  day,  the  life  of  the 
working-man,  and,  in  particular,  the  life  of  old  men, 
of  women,  and  of  children  of  the  working  population, 
is  perishing  directly  from  their  food,  which  is  utterly 
inadequate  to  their  fatiguing  labor ;  and  that  this  life 
of  theirs  is  not  free  from  care  as  to  its  very  first 
requirements ;  and  that,  alongside  of  this,  the  life  of 
the  non-laboring  classes,  to  which  I  belong,  is  filled 
more  and  more,  every  year,  with  superfluities  and  lux- 
ury, and  becomes  more  and  more  free  from  anxiety, 
and  has  finally  reached  such  a  point  of  freedom  from 
care,  in  the  case  of  its  fortunate  members,  of  whom 
I  am  one,  as  was  only  dreamed  of  in  olden  times  in 
fairy-tales,  —  the  state  of  the  owner  of  the  purse  with 
the  inexhaustible  ruble,  that  is,  a  condition  in  which 
a  man  is  not  only  utterly  released  from  the  law  of 
labor,  but  in  which  he  possesses  the  possibility  of 
enjoying,  without  toil,  all  the  blessings  of  life,  and 
of  transferring  to  his  children,  or  to  any  one  whom 
he  may  see  fit,  this  i)urse  with  the  inexhaustible 
ruble. 


120  WHAT  TO  DOf 

I  see  that  the  products  of  the  people's  toil  are  more 
and  more  transferred  from  the  mass  of  the  working 
classes  to  those  who  do  not  work ;  that  the  pyramid 
of  the  social  edifice  seems  to  be  reconstructed  in  such 
fashion  that  the  foundation  stones  are  carried  to  the 
apex,  and  the  swiftness  of  this  transfer  is  increasing 
in  a  sort  of  geometrical  ratio.  I  see  that  the  result  of 
this  is  something  like  that  which  would  take  place  in 
an  ant-heap  if  the  community  of  ants  were  to  lose  their 
sense  of  the  common  law,  if  some  ants  were  to  begin 
to  draw  the  products  of  labor  from  the  bottom  to 
the  top  of  the  heap,  and  should  constantly  contract  the 
foundations  and  broaden  the  apex,  and  should  thereby 
also  force  the  remaining  ants  to  betake  themselves 
from  the  bottom  to  the  summit. 

I  see  that  the  ideal  of  the  Fortunatus'  purse  has 
made  its  way  among  the  people,  in  the  place  of  the 
ideal  of  a  toilsome  life.  Rich  people,  myself  among 
the  number,  get  possession  of  the  inexhaustible  ruble 
by  various  devices,  and  for  the  purix)se  of  enjoying  it 
we  go  to  the  city,  to  the  place  where  nothing  is  pro- 
duced and  where  every  thing  is  swallowed  up. 

The  industrious  poor  man,  who  is  robbed  in  order 
that  the  rich  may  possess  this  inexhaustible  ruble, 
yearns  for  the  city  in  his  train  ;  and  there  he  also  takes 
to  sharp  practices,  and  either  acquires  for  himself  a 
position  in  which  he  can  work  little  and  receive  much, 
thereby  rendering  still  more  oppressive  the  situation  of 
the  laboring  classes,  or,  not  having  attained  to  such  a 
position,  he  goes  to  ruin,  and  falls  into  the  ranks  of 
those  cold  and  hungry  inhabitants  of  the  night-lodging 
houses,  which  are  being  swelled  with  such  remarkable 
rapidity. 

1  belong  to  the  class  of  those  people,  who,  by  divers 


THOU G [ITS   EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      121 

tricks,  take  from  the  toiling  masses  the  necessaries  of 
life,  and  who  have  acquired  for  themselves  these  inex- 
haustible rubles,  and  who  lead  these  unfortunates 
astray.  I  desire  to  aid  people,  and  therefore  it  is 
clear  that,  first  of  all,  I  must  cease  to  rob  them  as  I 
am  doing.  But  I,  by  the  most  complicated,  and  cun- 
ning, and  evil  practices,  which  have  been  heaped  up 
for  centuries,  have  acquired  for  myself  the  position  of 
an  owner  of  the  inexhaustible  ruble,  that  is  to  say, 
one  in  which,  never  working  myself,  I  can  make  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  people  toil  for  me  —  which  also 
I  do ;  and  I  imagine  that  I  pity  people,  and  I  wish  to 
assist  them.  I  sit  on  a  man's  neck,  I  weigh  him  down, 
and  I  demand  that  he  shall  carry  me  ;  and  without  de- 
scending from  his  shoulders  I  assure  myself  and  others 
that  I  am  very  sorry  for  him,  and  that  I  desire  to 
ameliorate  his  condition  by  all  possible  means,  only  not 
by  getting  off  of  him. 

Surely  this  is  simple  enough.  If  I  want  to  help  the 
poor,  that  is,  to  make  the  poor  no  longer  poor,  I  must 
not  produce  poor  people.  And  I  give,  at  my  own 
selection,  to  poor  men  who  have  gone  astray  from  the 
path  of  life,  a  ruble,  or  ten  rubles,  or  a  hundred  ;  and 
1  grasp  hundreds  from  people  who  have  not  yet  left 
the  path,  and  thereb3'  1  render  them  poor  also,  and 
demoralize  them  to  boot. 

This  is  very  simple ;  but  it  was  horribly  hard  for  me 
to  understand  this  fuU}^  without  compromises  and  res- 
ervations, which  might  serve  to  justify  my  position  ; 
but  it  sufficed  for  me  to  confess  my  guilt,  and  every 
thing  which  had  before  seemed  to  me  strange  and  com- 
plicated, and  lacking  in  clearness,  became  perfectly 
comprehensible  and  simple.  But  the  chief  point  was, 
that  my  way  of  life,  arising  from  this  interpretation. 


122  WHAT  TO  not 

became  simple,  clear  and  pleasant,  instead  of  perplexed, 
inexplicable  and  full  of  torture  as  before.]  ^ 

Who  am  I,  that  I  should  desire  to  help  others?  I 
desire  to  help  people ;  and  I,  rising  at  twelve  o'clock 
after  a  game  of  vint^  with  four  candles,  weak,  ex- 
hausted, demanding  the  aid  of  hundreds  of  people,  — 
I  go  to  the  aid  of  whom  ?  Of  people  who  rise  at  five 
o'clock,  who  sleep  on  planks,  who  nourish  themselves 
on  bread  and  cabbage,  who  know  how  to  plough,  to 
reap,  to  wield  the  axe,  to  chop,  to  harness,  to  sew,  — 
of  people  who  in  strength  and  endurance,  and  skill 
and  abstemiousness,  are  a  hundred  times  superior  to 
me,  — and  I  go  to  their  succor  !  What  except  shame 
could  I  feel,  when  I  entered  into  communion  with  these 
people?  The  very  weakest  of  them,  a  drunkani,  an 
inhabitant  of  the  Rzhanoff  house,  the  one  whom  they 
call  "  the  idler,"  is  a  hundred-fold  more  industrious 
than  I ;  [his  balance,  so  to  speak,  that  is  to  say,  the 
relation  of  what  he  takes  from  people  and  that  which 
they  give  him,  stands  on  a  thousand  times  better  foot- 
ing than  my  balance,  if  I  take  into  consideration  what 
I  take  from  people  and  what  I  give  to  them.]  ^ 

And  these  are  the  people  to  whose  assistance  I  go. 
I  go  to  help  the  poor.  But  who  is  the  poor  man? 
There  is  no  one  poorer  than  myself.  I  am  a  thoroughly 
enervated,  good-for-nothing  parasite,  who  can  only  ex- 
ist under  the  most  special  conditions,  who  can  only 
exist  when  thousands  of  people  toil  at  the  preservation 
of  this  life  which  is  utterly  useless  to  every  one.  And 
I,  that  plant-louse,  which  devours  the  foliage  of  trees, 
wish  to  help  the  tree  in  its  growth  and  health,  and 
I  wish  to  heal  it. 

1  Omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  authorized  edition. 

2  ^  very  comiilicated  sort  of  whist. 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      123 

I  have  passed  my  whole  life  in  this  manner :  I  eat,  I 
talk  and  1  listen  ;  I  eat,  I  write  or  read,  that  is  to  say, 
I  talk  and  listen  again  ;  1  eat,  I  play,  I  eat,  again  I  talk 
and  listen,  I  eat,  and  again  I  go  to  bed ;  and  so  each 
day  I  can  do  nothing  else,  and  I  understand  how  to  do 
nothing  else.  And  in  order  that  I  may  be  able  to 
do  this,  it  is  necessary  that  the  porter,  the  peasant,  the 
cook,  male  or  female,  the  footman,  the  coachman,  and 
the  laundress,  should  toil  from  morning  till  night ;  I  will 
not  refer  to  the  labors  of  the  people  which  are  necessary 
in  order  that  coachman,  cooks,  male  and  female,  foot- 
man, and  the  rest  should  have  those  implements  and 
articles  with  which,  and  over  which,  they  toil  for  my 
sake ;  axes,  tubs,  brushes,  household  utensils,  furni- 
ture, wax,  blacking,  kerosene,  hay,  wood,  and  beef. 
And  all  these  people  work  hard  all  day  long  and  every 
day,  so  that  I  may  be  able  to  talk  and  eat  and  sleep. 
And  I,  this  cripple  of  a  man,  have  imagined  that  I 
could  help  others,  and  those  the  very  people  who  sup- 
port me ! 

It  is  not  remarkable  that  I  could  not  help  any  one, 
and  that  I  felt  ashamed  ;  but  the  remarkable  point  is 
that  such  an  absurd  idea  could  have  occurred  to  me. 
The  woman  who  served  the  sick  old  man,  helped  him  ; 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  cut  a  slice  from  the 
bread  which  she  had  won  from  the  soil,  helped  the 
beggar ;  Semyon,  who  gave  three  kopeks  which  he  had 
earned,  helped  the  beggar,  because  those  three  kopeks 
actually  represented  his  labor :  but  I  served  no  one, 
I  toiled  for  no  one,  and  I  was  well  aware  that  my 
money  did  not  represent  my  labor. 


124  WHAT  TO  DOt 


[XVII.i 

Into  the  delusion  that  I  could  help  others  I  was  led 
by  the  fact  that  I  fancied  that  my  money  was  of  the 
same  sort  as  Semyon's.     But  this  was  not  the  case. 

A  general  idea  prevails,  that  money  represents 
wealth ;  but  wealth  is  the  product  of  labor ;  and, 
therefore,  money  represents  labor.  But  this  idea  is 
as  just  as  that  every  governmental  regulation  is  the 
result  of  a  compact  (contrat  social). 

Every  one  likes  to  think  that  money  is  only  a  medium 
of  exchange  for  labor.  I  have  made  shoes,  you  have 
raised  grain,  he  has  reared  sheep  :  here,  in  order  that  we 
may  the  more  readily  effect  an  exchange,  we  will  insti- 
tute money,  which  represents  a  corresponding  quantity 
of  labor,  and,  by  means  of  it,  we  will  barter  our  shoes 
for  a  breast  of  lamb  and  ten  pounds  of  flour.  We  will 
exchange  our  products  through  the  medium  of  money, 
and  the  money  of  each  one  of  us  represents  our  labor. 

This  is  perfectly  true,  but  true  only  so  long  as,  in 
the  community  where  this  exchange  is  effected,  the 
violence  of  one  man  over  the  rest  has  not  made  its 
appearance  ;  not  only  violence  over  the  labors  of  others, 
as  happens  in  wars  and  slavery,  but  where  he  exercises 
no  violence  for  the  protection  of  the  products  of  their 

1  The  whole  of  this  chapter  is  omitted  by  the  Censor  in  the  authorized 
edition,  and  is  there  represented  by  the  following  sentence:  "  And  I  felt  that 
in  money,  in  money  itself,  in  the  possession  of  it,  there  was  something 
immoral;  and  I  asked  myself,  What  is  money?  " 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      125 

labor  from  others.  This  will  be  true  only  in  a  com- 
munity whose  members  fully  carry  out  the  Christian 
law,  in  a  community  where  men  give  to  him  who  asks, 
and  where  he  who  takes  is  not  asked  to  make  restitu- 
tion. But  just  so  soon  as  any  violence  whatever  is 
used  in  the  community,  the  significance  of  money  for 
its  possessor  loses  its  significance  as  a  representative 
of  labor,  and  acquires  the  significance  of  a  right 
founded,  not  on  labor,  but  on  violence. 

As  soon  as  there  is  war,  and  one  man  has  taken  any 
thing  from  any  other  man,  money  can  no  longer  be 
always  the  representative  of  labor ;  money  received  by 
a  warrior  for  the  spoils  of  war,  which  he  sells,  even  if  he 
is  the  commander  of  the  warriors,  is  in  no  way  a  prod- 
uct of  labor,  and  possesses  an  entirely  different  mean- 
ing from  money  received  for  work  on  shoes.  As  soon 
as  there  are  slave-owners  and  slaves,  as  there  always 
have  been  throughout  the  whole  world,  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible to  say  that  money  represents  labor. 

Women  have  woven  linen,  sold  it,  and  received 
money ;  serfs  have  woven  for  their  master,  and  the 
master  has  sold  them  and  received  the  mone}'.  The 
money  is  identical  in  both  cases ;  but  in  the  one  case 
it  is  the  product  of  labor,  in  the  other  the  product  of 
violence.  In  exactly  the  same  way,  a  stranger  or  my 
own  father  has  given  me  money ;  and  my  father,  when 
he  gave  me  that  money,  knew,  and  I  know,  and  every- 
body knows,  that  no  one  can  take  this  monej'  away 
from  me ;  but  if  it  should  occur  to  any  one  to  take  it 
away  from  me,  or  even  not  to  hand  it  over  at  the  date 
when  it  was  promised,  the  law  would  intervene  on  my 
behalf,  and  would  compel  the  delivery  to  me  of  the 
money  ;  and,  again,  it  is  evident  that  this  mone^^  can 
in  no  wise  be  called  the  equivalent  of  labor,  on  a  level 


126  WHAT   TO   DO? 

with  the  mone}^  received  by  Semyon  for  chopping  wood. 
So  that  in  any  community  where  there  is  any  thing  that 
in  any  manner  whatever  controls  the  labor  of  others, 
or  where  violence  hedges  in,  by  means  of  money,  its 
possessions  from  others,  there  money  is  no  longer  in 
variably  the  representative  of  labor.  In  such  a  com- 
munit}',  it  is  sometimes  the  representative  of  labor,  and 
sometimes  of  violence. 

Thus  it  would  be  where  only  one  act  of  violence 
from  one  man  against  others,  in  the  midst  of  perfectly 
free  relations,  should  have  made  its  appearance ;  but 
now,  when  centuries  of  the  most  varied  deeds  of  vio- 
lence have  passed  for  accumulations  of  money,  when 
these  deeds  of  violence  are  incessant,  and  merely  alter 
their  forms ;  when,  as  every  one  admits,  money  accu- 
mulated itself  represents  violence ;  when  money,  as  a 
representative  of  direct  labor,  forms  but  a  very  small 
portion  of  the  money  which  is  derived  from  every 
sort  of  violence,  —  to  say  nowadays  that  money  rep- 
resents the  labor  of  the  person  who  possesses  it,  is 
a  self-evident  error  or  a  deliberate  lie. 

It  may  be  said,  that  thus  it  should  be ;  it  may  be 
said,  that  this  is  desirable ;  but  by  no  means  can  it 
be  said,  that  thus  it  is. 

Money  represents  labor.  Yes.  Money  does  rep- 
resent labor;  but  whose?  In  our  society  only  in  the 
very  rarest,  rarest  of  instances,  does  money  represent 
the  labor  of  its  possessor,  but  it  nearly  alwa3'S  repre- 
sents the  labor  of  other  people,  the  past  or  future 
labor  of  men  ;  it  is  a  representative  of  the  obligation 
of  others  to  labor,  which  has  been  established  by  force. 

Money,  in  its  most  accurate  and  at  the  same  time 
simple  application,  is  the  conventional  stamp  which  con- 
fers a  right,  or,  more  correctly,  a  possibility,  of  taking 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      127 

advantage  of  the  labors  of  other  people.  In  its  ideal 
significance,  money  should  confer  this  right,  or  this 
possibilit}',  only  when  it  serves  as  the  equivalent  of 
labor,  and  such  money  might  be  in  a  community  in 
which  no  violence  existed.  But  just  as  soon  as  vio- 
lence, that  is  to  say,  the  possibility  of  profiting  by  the 
labors  of  others  without  toil  of  one's  own,  exists  in  a 
community,  then  that  profiting  by  the  labors  of  other 
men  is  also  expressed  by  money,  without  any  distinc- 
tion of  the  persons  on  whom  that  violence  is  exercised. 

The  lauded  proprietor  has  imposed  upon  his  serfs 
natural  debts,  a  certain  quantity  of  linen,  grain,  and 
cattle,  or  a  corresponding  amount  of  money.  One 
household  has  procured  the  cattle,  but  has  paid  money 
in  lieu  of  linen.  The  proprietor  takes  the  money  to  a 
certain  amount  only,  because  he  knows  that  for  that 
money  they  will  make  him  the  same  quantity  of  linen, 
(generally  he  takes  a  little  more,  in  order  to  be  sure 
that  they  will  make  it  for  the  same  amount) ;  and  this 
money,  evidently,  represents  for  the  proprietor  the 
obligation  of  other  people  to  toil. 

The  peasant  gives  the  money  as  an  obligation,  to  he 
knows  not  whom,  but  to  people,  and  there  are  many 
of  them,  who  undertake  for  this  money  to  make  so 
much  linen.  But  the  people  who  undertake  to  make 
the  linen,  do  so  because  they  have  not  succeeded  in 
raising  sheep,  and  in  place  of  the  sheep,  they  must 
pay  money  ;  but  the  peasant  who  takes  monej'  for  his 
sheep  takes  it  because  he  mu^pay  for  grain  which  did 
not  bear  well  this  year.  The  same  thing  goes  on 
throughout  this  realm,  and  throughout  the  whole  world. 

A  man  sells  the  product  of  his  labor,  past,^3resent 
or  to  come,  sometimes  his  food,  and  generally  not 
because  money  constitutes  for  him  a  convenient  means 


128  WHAT  TO  DOf 

of  exchange.  He  could  have  effected  the  barter  with- 
out money,  but  he  does  so  because  money  is  exacted 
from  him  by  violence  as  a  lien  on  his  labor. 

When  the  sovereign  of  Eg3pt  exacted  labor  from  his 
slaves,  the  slaves  gave  all  their  labor,  but  only  their 
past  and  present  labor,  their  future  labor  they  could 
not  give.  But  with  the  dissemination  of  money  tokens, 
and  the  credit  which  had  its  rise  in  them,  it  became 
possible  to  sell  one's  future  toil  for  money.  Money, 
with  co-existent  violence  in  the  community,  only  rep- 
resents the  possibility  of  a  new  form  of  impersonal 
slavery,  which  has  taken  the  place  of  personal  slavery. 
The  slave-owner  has  a  right  to  the  labor  of  Piotr,  Ivan, 
and  Sidor.  But  the  owner  of  money,  in  a  place  where 
money  is  demanded  from  all,  has  a  right  to  the  toil  of 
all  those  nameless  people  who  are  in  need  of  money. 
Money  has  set  aside  all  the  oppressive  features  of 
slavery,  under  which  an  owner  knows  his  right  to 
Ivan,  and  with  them  it  has  set  aside  all  humane  rela- 
tions between  the  owner  and  the  slave,  which  mitigated 
the  burden  of  personal  thraldom. 

I  will  not  allude  to  the  fact,  that  such  a  condition  / 
of  things  is,  possibly,  necessary  for  the  development  of 
mankind,  for  progress,  and  so  forth,  —  that  I  do  not 
contest.  I  have  merely  tried  to  elucidate  to  myself 
the  idea  of  money,  and  that  universal  error  into  which 
I  fell  when  I  accepted  money  as  the  representative  of 
labor.  I  l>ecame  convinced,  after  experience,  that 
money  is  not  the  repr^ntative  of  labor,  but,  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  the  representative  of  violence,  or  of 
especially  complicated  sharp  practices  founded  on 
violence. 

Money,  in  our  day,  has  completely  lost  that  signifi- 
cance which  it  is  very  desirable  that  it  should  possess, 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      129 

as  the  representative  of  one's  own  labor ;  such  a  sig- 
nificance it  has  only  as  an  exception,  but,  as  a  general 
rule,  it  has  been  converted  into  a  right  or  a  ppssibility 
of  profiting  by  the  toil  of  others. 

The  dissemination  of  money,  of  credit,  and  of  all 
sorts  of  money  tokens,  confirms  this  significance  of 
money  ever  more  and  more.  Money  is  a  new  form  of 
slavery,  which  differs  from  the  old  form  of  slavery  only 
in  its  impersonality,  its  annihilation  of  all  humane 
relations  with  the  slave. 

Money  —  money,  is  a  value  which  is  always  equal 
to  itself,  and  is  always  considered  legal  and  righteous, 
and  whose  use  is  regarded  as  not  immoral,  just  as  the 
right  of  slavery  was  regarded. 

In  my  3'oung  daj's,  the  game  of  loto  was  introduced 
into  the  clubs.  Everybody  rushed  to  play  it,  and,  as 
it  was  said,  many  ruined  themselves,  rendered  their 
families  miserable,  lost  other  people's  money,  and 
government  funds,  and  committed  suicide ;  and  the 
game  was  prohibited,  and  it  remains  prohibited  to  this 
day. 

I  remember  to  have  seen  old  and  unsentimental 
gamblers,  who  told  me  that  this  game  was  particu- 
larly pleasing  because  you  did  not  see  from  whom  you 
were  winning,  as  is  the  case  in  other  games  ;  a  lackey 
brought,  not  money,  but  chips ;  each  man  lost  a  little 
stake,  and  his  disappointment  was  not  visible.  ...  It 
is  the  same  with  roulette,  which  is  everywhere  pro- 
hibited, and  not  without  reason. 

It  is  the  same  with  money.  I  possess  a  magic, 
inexhaustible  ruble ;  I  cut  off  my  coupons,  and  have 
retired  from  all  the  business  of  the  world.  Whom 
do  I  injure,  —  I,  the  most  inoffensive  and  kindest  of 
men  ?     But  this  is  nothing  more  than  playing  at  loto  or 


130  WHAT   TO  DO? 

roulette,  where  I  do  not  see  the  man  who  shoots  him- 
self, because  of  his  losses,  after  procuring  for  me 
those  coupons  which  I  cut  off  from  the  bonds  so  accu- 
rately with  a  strictly  right-angled  corner. 

I  have  done  nothing,  I  do  nothing,  and  I  shall  do 
nothing,  except  cut  off  those  coupons ;  and  I  firmly 
believe  that  money  is  the  representative  of  labor! 
Surely,  this  is  amazing  !  And  people  talk  of  madmen, 
after  that !  Why,  what  degree  of  lunacy  can  be  more 
frightful  than  this?  A  sensible,  educated,  in  all  other 
respects  sane  man  lives  in  a  senseless  manner,  and 
soothes  himself  for  not  uttering  the  word  which  it  is 
indispensably  necessary  that  he  should  utter,  with  the 
idea  that  there  is  some  sense  in  his  conclusions,  and  he 
considers  himself  a  just  man.  Coupons  —  the  repre- 
sentatives of  toil!  Toil!  Yes,  but  of  whose  toil? 
Evidently  not  of  the  man  who  owns  them,  but  of  him 
who  labors. 

Slavery  is  far  from  being  suppressed.  It  has  been 
suppressed  in  Rome  and  in  America,  and  among  us : 
but  only  certain  laws  have  been  abrogated  ;  only  the 
word,  not  the  thing,  has  been  put  down.  Slavery  is 
the  freeing  of  ourselves  alone  from  the  toil  wliich  is 
necessary  for  the  satisfaction  of  our  demands,  by  the 
transfer  of  this  toil  to  others  ;  and  wherever  there 
exists  a  man  who  does  not  work,  not  because  others 
work  lovingly  for  him,  but  where  he  possesses  the 
power  of  not  working,  and  forces  others  to  work  for 
him,  there  slavery  exists.  There  too,  where,  as  in  all 
European  societies,  there  are  people  who  make  use  of 
the  labor  of  thousands  of  men,  and  regard  this  as  their 
right,  —  there  slavery  exists  in  its  broadest  measure. 

And  money  is  the  same  thing  as  slavery.  Its  object 
and  its  consequences  are  the  same.     Its  object  is  — 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF   MOSCOW.      131 

that  one  may  rid  one's  self  of  the  first  born  of  all  laws, 
as  a  profoundly  thoughtful  writer  from  the  ranks  of 
the  people  has  expressed  it ;  U'om  the  natural  law 
of  Ufe,  as  we  have  called  it ;  from  the  law  of  personal 
labor  for  the  satisfaction  of  our  own  wants.  And  the 
results  of  money  are  the  same  as  the  results  of  slavery, 
for  the  proprietor ;  the  creation,  the  invention  of  new 
and  ever  new  and  never-ending  demands,  which  can 
never  be  satisfied  ;  the  enervation  of  poverty,  vice,  and 
for  the  slaves,  the  persecution  of  man  and  their  degra- 
dation to  the  level  of  the  beasts. 

Money  is  a  new  and  terrible  form  of  slavery,  and 
equally  demoralizing  with  the  ancient  form  of  slavery 
for  both  slave  and  slave-owner ;  only  much  worse,  be- 
cause it  frees  the  slave  and  the  slave-owner  from  tjieir 
personal,  humane  relations.] 


132  WHAT  TO  DOf 


XVIII. 

I  AM  always  surprised  by  the  oft-repeated  words : 
"  Yes,  this  is  so  in  theory,  but  how  is  it  in  practice?  " 
Just  as  though  theory  were  fine  words,  requisite  for 
conversation,  but  not  for  the  purpose  of  having  all 
practice,  that  is,  all  activity,  indispensably  founded  on 
them.  There  must  be  a  fearful  number  of  stupid  theo- 
ries current  in  the  world,  that  such  an  extraordinary 
idea  should  have  become  prevalent.  Theory  is  what  a 
man  thinks  on  a  subject,  but  its  practice  is  what  he 
does.  How  can  a  man  think  it  necessary  to  do  so  and 
so,  and  then  do  the  contrary  ?  If  the  theory  of  baking 
bread  is,  that  it  must  first  be  mixed,  and  then  set  to 
rise,  no  one  except  a  lunatic,  knowing  this  theory, 
would  do  the  reverse.  But  it  has  become  the  fashion 
with  us  to  say,  that  "this  is  so  in  theory,  but  how 
about  the  practice?  " 

In  the  matter  which  interests  me  now,  that  has  been 
confirmed  which  I  have  always  thought,  —  that  practice 
infallibly  flows  from  theory,  and  not  that  it  justifies  it, 
but  it  cannot  possibly  be  otherwise,  for  if  I  have  under- 
stood the  thing  of  which  I  have  been  thinking,  then  I 
cannot  carry  out  this  thing  otherwise  than  as  I  have 
understood  it. 

I  wanted  to  help  the  unfortunate  only  because  I  had 
money,  and  I  shared  the  general  belief  that  money  was 
the  representative  of  labor,  or,  on  the  whole,  something 
legal  and  good.     But,  having  begun  to  give  away  this 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      133 

money,  I  saw,  when  I  gave  the  bills  which  I  had  accn- 
mulated  from  poor  people,  that  I  was  doing  precisely 
that  which  was  done  by  some  landed  proprietors  who 
made  some  of  their  serfs  wait  on  others.  I  saw  that 
every  use  of  money,  whether  for  making  purchases,  or 
for  giving  away  without  an  equivalent  to  another,  is 
handing  over  a  note  for  extortion  from  the  poor,  or  its 
transfer  to  another  man  for  extortion  from  the  poor. 
I  saw  that  money  in  itself  was  not  only  not  good,  but 
evidently  evil,  and  that  it  deprives  us  of  our  highest 
good,  —  labor,  and  thereby  of  the  enjoyment  of  our 
labor,  and  that  that  blessing  I  was  not  in  a  position  to 
confer  on  any  one,  because  I  was  myself  deprived  of 
it :  1  do  not  work,  and  I  take  no  pleasure  in  making 
use  of  the  labor  of  others. 

It  would  appear  that  there  is  something  peculiar  in 
this  abstract  argument  as  to  the  nature  of  money. 
But  this  argument  which  I  have  made  not  for  the  sake 
of  argument,  but  for  the  solution  of  the  problem  of 
my  life,  of  my  sufferings,  was  for  me  an  answer  to  my 
question  :  What  is  to  be  done  ? 

As  soon  as  I  grasped  the  meaning  of  riches,  and  of 
money,  it  not  only  became  clear  and  indisputable  to 
me,  what  I  ought  to  do,  but  also  clear  and  indisputa- 
ble what  others  ought  to  do,  because  they  would  infal- 
libly do  it.  I  had  only  actually  come  to  understand 
what  I  had  known  for  a  long  time  previously,  the  theory 
which  was  given  to  men  from  the  very  earliest  times, 
both  by  Buddha,  and  Isaiah,  and  Lao-Tze,  and  Socrates, 
and  in  a  peculiarly  clear  and  indisputable  manner  by 
Jesus  Christ  and  his  forerunner,  John  the  Baptist.  John 
the  Baptist,  in  answer  to  the  question  of  the  people, 
—  What  were  they  to  do?  replied  simply,  briefly,  and 
clearly:  "  He  that  hath  two  coats,  let  him  impart  to 


134  WHAT  TO  JDOf 

him  that  hath  none  ;  and  he  that  hath  meat,  let  him  do 
likewise  "  (Luke  iii.  10,  11).  In  a  similar  manner,  but 
with  even  greater  clearness,  and  on  many  occasions, 
Christ  spoke.  He  said:  '*  Blessed  are  the  poor,  and 
woe  to  the  rich."  He  said  that  it  is  impossible  to 
serve  God  and  mammon.  He  forbade  his  disciples 
to  take  not  only  money,  but  also  two  garments.  He 
said  to  the  rich  young  man,  that  he  could  not  enter 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  because  he  was  rich,  and 
that  it  was  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of 
a  needle,  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom 
of  God.  He  said  that  he  who  should  not  leave  every 
thing,  houses  and  children  and  lands,  and  follow  him, 
could  not  be  his  disciple.  He  told  the  parable  of  the 
rich  man  who  did  nothing  bad,  like  our  own  rich  men, 
but  who  only  arrayed  himself  in  costly  garments,  and 
ate  and  drank  daintily,  and  who  lost  his  soul  thereby  ; 
and  of  poor  Lazarus,  who  had  done  nothing  good,  but 
who  was  saved  merely  because  he  was  poor. 

This  theory  was  sufficiently  familiar  to  me,  but  the 
false  teachings  of  the  world  had  so  obscured  it  tliat 
it  had  become  for  me  a  theory  in  the  sense  which  peo- 
ple are  fond  of  attributing  to  that  term,  that  is  to  say, 
empty  words.  But  as  soon  as  I  had  succeeded  in  de- 
stroying in  my  consciousness  the  sophisms  of  worldly 
teaching,  theory  conformed  to  practice,  and  the  truth 
with  regard  to  my  life  and  to  the  life  of  the  people 
about  me  became  its  conclusion. 

I  understood  that  man,  besides  life  for  his  own  per- 
sonal good,  is  unavoidably  bound  to  serve  the  good  of 
others  also ;  that,  if  we  take  an  illustration  from  the 
animal  kingdom,  —  as  some  people  are  fond  of  doing, 
defending  violence  and  conflict  by  the  conflict  for 
existence   in   the   animal  kingdom,  —  the   illustration 


THODGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      135 

must  be  taken  from  gregarious  animals,  like  bees  ;  that 
consequently  man,  not  to  mention  the  love  to  his  neigh- 
bor incumbent  on  him,  is  called  upon,  both  by  rea- 
son and  by  his  nature,  to  serve  other  people  and  the 
common  good  of  humanity.  I  comprehended  that 
the  natural  law  of  man  is  that  according  to  which  only 
he  can  fulfil  destiny-,  and  therefore  be  happy.  I  under- 
stood that  this  law  has  been  and  is  broken  hereby,  — 
that  people  get  rid  of  labor  by  force  (like  the  robber 
bees),  make  use  of  the  toil  of  others,  directing  this 
toil,  not  to  the  common  weal,  but  to  the  private  satis- 
faction of  swift-growing  desires ;  and,  precisely  as  in 
the  case  of  the  robber  bees,  they  perish  in  consequence. 
[I  understood  that  the  original  form  of  this  disinclina- 
tion for  the  law  is  the  brutal  violence  against  weaker 
individuals,  against  women,  wars  and  imprisonments, 
whose  sequel  is  slaver}^  and  also  the  present  reign  of 
money.  I  understood  that  money  is  the  impersonal 
and  concealed  enslavement  of  the  poor.  And,  once 
having  perceived  the  significance  of  money  as  slavery, 
I  could  not  but  hate  it,  nor  refrain  from  doing  all  in 
my  power  to  free  myself  from  it.]  ^ 

When  I  was  a  slave-owner,  and  comprehended  the 
immorality  of  my  position,  I  tried  to  escape  from  it. 
My  escape  consisted  in  this,  that  I,  regarding  it  as 
immoral,  tried  to  exercise  my  rights  as  slave-owner  as 
little  as  possible,  but  to  live,  and  to  allow  other  people 
to  live,  as  though  that  right  did  not  exist.  And  I 
cannot  refrain  from  doing  the  same  thing  now  in  refer- 
ence to  the  present  form  of  slavery,  —  exercising  my 
right  to  the  labor  of  others  as  little  as  possible,  i.e., 
hiring  and  purchasing  as  little  as  possible. 

The  root  of  every  slavery  is  the  use  of  the  labor 

1  Omitted  by  the  Ceueor  iu  the  authorized  edition. 


136  WffAT  TO  DO? 

of  others ;  and  hence,  the  compelling  others  to  it  is 
founded  indififerently  on  my  right  to  the  slave,  or  on 
my  possession  of  money  which  is  indispensable  to  him. 
If  I  really  do  not  approve,  and  if  I  regard  as  an  evil, 
the  employment  of  the  labor  of  others,  then  I  shall  use 
neither  my  right  nor  my  money  for  that  purpose ;  I 
shall  not  compel  others  to  toil  for  me,  but  I  shall  en- 
deavor to  free  them  from  the  labor  which  the}'  have 
performed  for  me,  as  far  as  possible,  either  by  doing 
without  this  labor  or  by  performing  it  for  myself. 

And  this  very  simple  and  unavoidable  deduction 
enters  into  all  the  details  of  my  life,  effects  a  total 
change  in  it,  and  at  one  blow  releases  me  from  those 
moral  sufferings  which  I  have  undergone  at  the  sight  of 
the  sufferings  and  the  vice  of  the  people,  and  instantly 
annihilates  all  three  causes  of  my  inability  to  aid  the 
poor,  which  I  had  encountered  while  seeking  the  cause 
of  my  lack  of  success. 

The  first  cause  was  the  herding  of  the  people  in 
towns,  and  the  absorption  there  of  the  wealth  of  the 
country.  All  that  a  man  needs  is  to  understand  how 
every  hiring  or  purchase  is  a  handle  to  extortion  from 
the  poor,  and  that  therefore  he  must  abstain  from  them, 
and  must  try  to  fulfil  his  own  requirements  ;  and  not  a 
single  man  will  then  quit  the  country,  where  all  wants, 
can  be  satisfied  without  mone3%  for  the  city,  where  it  is 
necessary  to  buy  every  thing  :  and  in  the  country  he  will 
be  in  a  position  to  help  the  needy,  as  has  been  my  own 
experience  and  the  experience  of  every  one  else. 

The  second  cause  is  the  estrangement  of  the  rich 
from  the  poor.  A  man  needs  but  to  refrain  from  buy- 
ing, from  hiring,  and,  disdaining  no  sort  of  work,  to 
satisfy  his  requirements  himself,  and  the  former  es- 
trangement will   immediately  be  annihilated,  and  the 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      137 

man,  having  rejected  luxury  and  the  services  of  others, 
will  amalgamate  with  the  mass  of  the  working  people, 
and,  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  working 
people,  he  can  help  them. 

The  third  cause  was  shame,  founded  on  a  conscious- 
ness of  immorality  in  my  owning  that  money  with 
which  I  desired  to  help  people.  All  that  is  required  is  : 
to  understand  the  significance  of  money  as  impersonal 
slavery,  which  it  has  acquired  among  us,  in  order  to 
escape  for  the  future  from  falling  into  the  error  accord- 
ing to  which  money,  though  evil  in  itself,  can  be  an 
instrument  of  good,  and  in  order  to  refrain  from  acquir- 
ing money ;  and  to  rid  one's  self  of  it  in  order  to  be 
in  a  position  to  do  good  to  people,  that  is,  to  bestow 
on  them  one's  labor,  and  not  the  labor  of  another. 


138  WHAT  TO  DOr 


XIX. 

[I  SAW  that  money  is  the  cause  of  suffering  and  vice 
among  the  people,  and  that,  if  I  desired  to  help  people, 
the  first  thing  that  was  required  of  me  was  not  to  create 
those  unfortunates  whom  I  wished  to  assist. 

I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  man  who  does 
not  love  vice  and  the  suffering  of  the  people  should  not 
make  use  of  money,  thus  presenting  an  inducement  to 
extortion  from  the  poor,  by  forcing  them  to  work  for 
him ;  and  that,  in  order  not  to  make  use  of  the  toil  of 
others,  he  must  demand  as  little  from  others  as  possi- 
ble, and  work  as  much  as  possible  himself.]* 

By  dint  of  a  long  course  of  reasoning,  I  came  to 
this  inevitable  conclusion,  which  was  drawn  thousands 
of  years  ago  by  the  Chinese  in  the  saying,  "  If  there  is 
one  idle  man,  there  is  another  dying  with  hunger  to 
offset  him." 

[Then  what  are  we  to  do  ?  John  the  Baptist  gave  the 
answer  to  this  very  question  two  thousand  years  ago. 
And  when  the  people  asked  him,  '^  What  are  we  to 
do?  "  he  said,  "  Let  him  that  hath  two  garaients  im- 
part to  him  that  hath  none,  and  let  him  that  hath  meat 
do  the  same.'*  What  is  the  meaning  of  giving  away 
one  garaient  out  of  two,  and  half  of  one's  food  ?  It 
means  givilig  to  others  every  superfluity,  and  thence- 
forth taking  nothing  superfluous  from  people. 

Tliis  expedient,  which  furnishes  such  perfect  satis- 

1  Omitted  by  the  CeQsor  iu  the  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      139 

faction  to  the  moral  feelings,  kept  my  eyes  fast  bound, 
and  binds  all  our  eyes  ;  and  we  do  not  see  it,  but  gaze 
aside. 

This  is  precisely  like  a  personage  on  the  stage,  who 
has  entered  a  long  time  since,  and  all  the  spectators  see 
him,  and  it  is  obvious  that  the  actors  cannot  help  see- 
ing him,  but  the  point  on  the  stage  lies  in  the  acting 
characters  pretending  not  to  see  him,  and  in  suffering 
from  his  absence.]  ^ 

Thus  we,  in  our  efforts  to  recover  from  our  social 
diseases,  search  in  all  quarters,  governmental  and  anti- 
governmental,  and  in  scientific  and  in  philanthropic 
superstitions  ;  and  we  do  not  see  what  is  perfectly  visi- 
ble to  every  eye. 

For  the  man  who  really  suffers  from  the  sufferings 
of  the  people  who  surround  us,  there  exists  the  very 
plainest,  simplest,  and  easiest  means  ;  the  only  possible 
one  for  the  cure  of  the  evil  about  us,  and  for  the  acqui- 
sition of  a  consciousness  of  the  legitimacy  of  his  life ; 
the  one  given  by  John  the  Baptist,  and  confirmed  by 
Christ :  not  to  have  more  than  one  garment,  and  not 
to  have  money.  And  not  to  have  any  money,  means, 
not  to  employ  the  labor  of  others,  and  hence,  first  of 
all,  to  do  with  our  own  hands  every  thing  that  we  can 
possibly  do. 

This  is  so  clear  and  simple !  But  it  is  clear  and 
simple  when  the  requirements  are  simple.  I  live  in  the 
country.  I  lie  on  the  oven,  and  I  order  my  debtor,  my 
neighbor,  to  chop  wood  and  light  my  fire.  It  is  very 
clear  that  1  am  lazy,  and  that  1  tear  my  neighbor  away 


1  The  above  passage  is  omitted  in  the  authorized  edition,  and  the  follow- 
ing is  added :  "  I  came  to  the  simple  and  natural  conclusion,  that,  if  1  pity 
the  tortured  horse  upon  which  I  am  riding,  the  first  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to 
alight,  and  to  walk  on  my  own  feet." 


140  •       WHAT  TO  J)Or 

from  his  affairs,  and  I  shall  feel  mortified,  and  I  shall 
find  it  tiresome  to  lie  still  all  the  time ;  and  I  shall  go 
and  split  my  wood  for  myself. 

But  the  delusion  of  slavery  of  all  descriptions  lies  so 
far  back,  so  much  of  artificial  exaction  has  sprung 
np  upon  it,  so  many  people,  accustomed  in  different 
degrees  to  these  habits,  are  interwoven  with  each 
other,  enervated  people,  spoiled  for  generations,  and 
such  complicated  delusions  and  justifications  for  their 
luxury  and  idleness  have  been  devised  by  people,  that 
it  is  far  from  being  so  easy  for  a  man  who  stands  at 
the  summit  of  the  ladder  of  idle  people  to  understand 
his  sin,  as  it  is  for  the  peasant  who  has  made  his 
neighbor  build  his  fire. 

It  is  terribly  difficult  for  people  at  the  top  of  this 
ladder  to  understand  what  is  required  of  them.  [Their 
heads  are  turned  by  the  height  of  this  ladder  of  lies, 
upon  which  they  find  themselves  when  a  place  on  the 
ground  is  offered  to  them,  to  which  the\'  must  descend 
in  order  to  begin  to  live,  not  yet  well,  but  no  longer 
cruelly,  inhumanly ;  for  this  reason,  this  clear  and 
simple  truth  appears  strange  to  these  people.  For  the 
man  with  ten  servants,  liveries,  coachmen,  cooks,  pic- 
tures, pianofortes,  that  will  infallibly  a[)pear  strange, 
and  even  ridiculous,  which  is  the  simplest,  the  first  act 
of  —  I  will  not  say  every  good  man  —  but  of  every 
man  who  is  not  wicked :  to  cut  his  own  wood  with 
which  his  food  is  cooked,  and  with  which  he  warms 
himself;  to  himself  clean  those  boots  with  which  he 
has  heedlessly  stepped  in  the  mire ;  to  himself  fetch 
that  water  with  which  he  preserves  his  cleanliness,  and 
to  carry  out  that  dirty  water  in  which  he  has  washed 
himself  .J  ^ 

1  Omitted  iu  the  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  .MOSCOW.      141 

But,  besides  the  remoteness  of  people  from  the 
truth,  there  is  another  cause  which  prevents  people 
from  seeing  the  obligation  for  them  of  the  simplest 
and  most  natural  personal,  physical  labor  for  them- 
selves :  this  is  the  complication,  the  inextricability  of 
the  conditions,  the  advantage  of  all  the  people  who  are 
bound  together  among  themselves  by  money,  in  which 
the  rich  man  lives:  "  My  luxurious  life  feeds  peopl*^. 
What  would  become  of  my  old  valet  if  I  were  to  dis- 
charge him?  What !  we  must  all  do  every  thing  neces- 
sar}',  —  make  our  clothes  and  hew  wood  ?  .  .  .  And 
how  about  the  division  of  labor  ?  ' ' 

[This  morning  I  stepped  out  into  the  corridor  where 
the  fires  were  being  built.  A  peasant  was  making  a 
fire  in  the  stove  which  warms  my  son's  room.  I  went 
in  ;  the  latter  was  asleep.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  To-day  is  a  holiday  :  there  is  some  ex- 
cuse, there  are  no  lessons. 

The  smooth-skinned,  eighteen-year-old  youth,  with 
a  beard,  who  had  eaten  his  fill  on  the  preceding  even- 
ing, sleeps  until  eleven  o'clock.  But  the  peasant  of 
his  age  had  been  up  at  dawn,  and  had  got  through  a 
quantity  of  work,  and  was  attending  to  his  tenth  stove, 
while  the  former  slept.  *'  The  peasant  shall  not  make 
the  fire  in  his  stove  to  warm  that  smooth,  lazy  body  of 
his!  "  I  thought.  But  I  immediately  recollected  that 
this  stove  also  warmed  the  room  of  the  housekeeper, 
a  woman  forty  years  of  age,  who,  on  the  evening  be- 
fore, had  been  making  preparations  up  to  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  for  the  supper  which  my  son  had  eaten, 
and  that  she  had  cleared  the  table,  and  risen  at  seven, 
nevertheless.  The  peasant  was  building  the  fire  for 
her  also.  And  under  her  name  the  lazybones  was 
warming  himself. 


142  WHAT   TO   DOf 

It  is  true  that  the  interests  of  all  are  interwoven  ; 
but,  even  without  any  prolonged  reckoning,  the  con- 
science of  each  man  will  say  on  whose  side  lies  labor, 
and  on  whose  idleness.  But  although  conscience  saj-s 
this,  the  account- book,  the  cash-book,  says  it  still  more 
clearly.  The  more  money  any  one  spends,  the  more 
idle  he  is,  that  is  to  say,  the  more  he  makes  others 
work  for  him.  The  less  he  spends,  the  more  he 
works.]  ^  But  trade,  but  public  undertakings,  and, 
finally,  the  most  terrible  of  words,  culture,  the  devel- 
opment of  sciences,  and  the  arts,  —  what  of  them? 

[If  I  live  I  will  make  answer  to  those  points,  and 
in  detail ;  and  until  such  answer  I  will  narrate  the 
following.]  ^ 

»  Omitted  in  authorized  edition. 


Vv 


T II OUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS  OF  MOSCOW.      143 


XX. 

LIFE  m  THE  CITY. 

Last  year,  in  March,  I  was  returning  home  late  at 
night.  As  I  turned  from  the  Zubova  into  Khamov- 
nitchesky  Lane,  I  saw  some  black  spots  on  the  snow 
of  the  Dyevitchy  Pole  (field).  Something  was  moving 
about  in  one  place.  I  should  not  have  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  this,  if  the  policeman  who  was  standing  at  the 
end  of  the  street  had  not  shouted  in  the  direction  of 
the  black  spots,  — 

''  Vasily  !  why  don't  you  bring  her  in?  '* 

*' She  won*t  come!"  answered  a  voice,  and  then 
the  spot  moved  towards  the  policeman. 

I  halted  and  asked  the  police-officer,  "  What  is  it?  " 

He  said,  — 

*'  They  are  taking  a  girl  from  the  Rzhanoff  house 
to  the  station-house ;  and  she  is  hanging  back,  she 
won't  walk."  A  house-porter  in  a  sheepskin  coat  was 
leading  her.  She  was  walking  forward,  and  he  was 
pushing  her  from  behind.  All  of  us,  I  and  the  porter 
and  the  policeman,  were  dressed  in  winter  clothes,  but 
she  had  nothing  on  over  her  dress.  In  the  darkness  I 
could  make  out  only  her  brown  dress,  and  the  kerchiefs 
on  her  head  and  neck.  She  was  short  in  stature,  as  is 
often  the  case  with  the  prematurely  born,  with  small 
feet,  and  a  comparatively  broad  and  awkward  figure. 

*' We're  waiting  for  ^ou,  you  carrion.     Get  along. 


144  WHAT   TO    DOf 

what  do  3'ou  mean  by  it?  I'll  give  it  to  you!" 
shouted  the  policeman.  He  was  evidently  tired,  and 
he  had  had  too  much  of  her.  She  advanced  a  few 
paces,  and  again  halted. 

The  little  old  porter,  a  good-natured  fellow  (I  know 
him),  tugged  at  her  hand.  "Here,  I'll  teach  j^ou  to 
stop !  On  with  you  !  "  he  repeated,  as  though  in  anger. 
She  staggered,  and  began  to  talk  in  a  discordant  voice. 
At  every  sound  there  was  a  false  note,  both  hoarse 
and  whining. 

"  Come  now,  you're  shoving  again.  I'll  get  there 
some  time  ! ' ' 

She  stopped  and  then  went  on.     I  followed  them. 

'''  You'll  freeze,"  said  the  porter. 

"  The  likes  of  us  don't  freeze  :  I'm  hot." 

She  tried  to  jest,  but  her  words  sounded  like  scold- 
ing. She  halted  again  under  the  lantern  which  stands 
not  far  from  our  house,  and  leaned  against,  almost 
hung  over,  the  fence,  and  began  to  fumble  for  some- 
thing among  her  skirts,  with  benumbed  and  awkward 
hands.  Ao:ain  they  shouted  at  her,  but  she  muttered 
something  and  did  something.  In  one  hand  she  held 
a  cigarette  bent  into  a  bow,  in  the  other  a  match.  I 
paused  behind  her;  I  was  ashamed  to  pass  her,  and 
I  was  ashamed  to  stand  and  look  on.  But  I  made  up 
my  mind,  and  stepped  forward.  Her  shoulder  was 
lying  against  the  fence,  and  against  the  fence  it  was 
that  she  vainly  struck  the  match  and  flung  it  away.  I 
looked  in  her  face.  She  was  really  a  person  prema- 
turely born ;  but,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  already  an  old 
woman.  I  credited  her  with  thirty  years.  A  dirty  hue 
of  face ;  small,  dull,  tipsy  eyes  \  ^  button-like  nose ; 
curved  moist  lips  with  drooping  corners,  and  a  short 
wisp  of  harsh  hair  escaping  f  rorq  beneath  her  kerchief ; 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      145 

a  long  flat  figure,  stumpj^  hands  and  feet.  I  paused 
opposite  her.  She  stared  at  me,  and  burst  into  a 
laugh,  as  though  she  knew  all  that  was  going  on  in  my 
mind. 

I  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  say  something  to  her. 
I  wanted  to  show  her  that  I  pitied  her. 

''  Are  your  parents  alive?  "  1  inquired. 

She  laughed  hoarsely,  with  an  expression  which 
said,  "  He's  making  up  queer  things  to  ask." 

''My  mother  is,"  said  she.  ''But  what  do  you 
.want?" 

"  And  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Sixteen,"  said  she,  answering  promptly  to  a  ques- 
tion which  was  evidently  customary. 

"  Come,  march,  you'll  freeze,  you'll  perish  entirely," 
shouted  the  policeman ;  and  she  swayed  away  from 
the  fence,  and,  staggering  along,  she  went  down  Kha- 
movnitchesky  Lane  to  the  police-station  ;  and  I  turned, 
to  the  wicket,  and  entered  the  house,  and  inquired 
whether  my  daughters  had  returned.  I  was  told  that 
they  had  been  to  an  evening  party,  had  had  a  veiy 
merry  time,  had  come  home,  and  were  in  bed. 

Next  morning  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  station-house  to 
learn  what  had  been  done  with  this  unfortunate  woman, 
and  I  was  preparing  to  go  out  very  early,  when  there 
came  to  see  me  one  of  those  unlucky  noblemen,  who, 
through  weakness,  have  dropped  from  the  gentlemanly 
life  to  which  they  are  accustomed,  and  who  alternately 
rise  and  fall.  I  had  been  acquainted  with  this  man 
for  three  years.  In  the  course  of  those  three  years, 
this  man  had  several  times  made  way  with  every  thing 
that  he  had,  and  even  with  all  his  clothes ;  the  same 
thing  had  just  happened  again,  and  he  was  passing  the 
nights  temporarily  in  the  Rzhanoff  house,  in  the  night- 


146  WHAT   TO  DOf 

lodging  section,  and  he  had  come  to  me  for  the  day. 
He  met  me  as  I  was  going  out,  at  the  entrance,  and 
without  listening  to  me  he  began  to  tell  me  what  had 
taken  place  in  the  Rzhanoff  house  the  night  before. 
He  began  his  narrative,  and  did  not  half  finish  it ;  all 
at  once  (he  is  an  old  man  who  has  seen  men  under  all 
sorts  of  aspects)  he  burst  out  sobbing,  and  flooded  his 
countenance  with  tears,  and  when  he  had  become  silent, 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  This  is  what  he  told  me. 
Every  thing  that  he  related  to  me  was  absolutely  true. 
I  authenticated  his  story  on  the  spot,  and  learned  fresh 
particulars  which  1  will  relate  separately. 

In  that  night-lodging  house,  on  the  lower  floor,  in 
No.  32,  in  which  my  friend  had  spent  the  night,  among 
the  various,  ever-changing  lodgers,  men  and  women, 
who  came  together  there  for  five  kopeks,  there  was  a 
laundress,  a  woman  thirty  years  of  age,  light-haired, 
peaceable  and  pretty,  but  sickly.  The  mistress  of  the 
quarters  had  a  boatman  lover.  In  the  summer  her 
lover  kept  a  boat,  and  in  the  winter  they  lived  by  let- 
ting accommodations  to  night-lodgers :  three  kopeks 
without  a  pillow,  five  kopeks  with  a  pillow. 

The  laundress  had  lived  there  for  several  months, 
and  was  a  quiet  woman  ;  but  latterly  they  had  not  liked 
her,  because  she  coughed  and  prevented  the  women 
from  sleeping.  An  old  half-crazy  woman  eighty  years 
old,  in  particular,  also  a  regular  lodger  in  these  quar- 
ters, hated  the  laundress,  and  imbittered  the  latter's 
life  because  she  prevented  her  sleeping,  and  cleared  her 
throat  all  night  like  a  sheep.  The  laundress  held  her 
peace ;  she  was  in  debt  for  her  lodgings,  and  was  con- 
scious of  her  guilt,  and  therefore  she  was  bound  to  be 
quiet.  She  began  to  go  more  and  more  rarely  to  her 
work,  as  her  strength  failed  her,  and  therefore  she  could 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      147 

not  pay  her  landlady ;  and  for  the  last  week  she  had 
not  been  out  to  work  at  all,  and  had  only  poisoned  the 
existence  of  every  one,  especially  of  the  old  woman, 
who  also  did  not  go  out,  with  her  cough.  Four  days 
before  this,  the  landlady  had  given  the  laundress  notice 
to  leave  the  quarters :  the  latter  was  already  sixty 
kopeks  in  debt,  and  she  neither  paid  them,  nor  did  the 
landlady  foresee  any  possibility  of  getting  them ;  and 
all  the  bunks  were  occupied,  and  the  women  all  com- 
plained of  the  laundress's  cough. 

When  the  landlady  gave  the  laundress  notice,  and 
told  her  that  she  must  leave  the  lodgings  if  she  did  not 
pay  up,  the  old  woman  rejoiced  and  thrust  the  laun- 
dress out  of  doors.  The  laundress  departed,  but 
returned  in  an  hour,  and  the  landlady  had  not  the  heart 
to  put  her  out  again.  And  the  second  and  the  third 
day,  she  did  not  turn  her  out.  *'  Where  am  I  to  go?  " 
said  the  laundress.  But  on  the  third  day,  the  land- 
lady's lover,  a  Moscow  man,  who  knew  the  regulations 
and  how  to  manage,  sent  for  the  police.  A  policeman 
with  sword  and  pistol  on  a  red  cord  came  to  the  lodg- 
ings, and  with  courteous  words  he  led  the  laundress 
into  the  street. 

It  was  a  clear,  sunny,  but  freezing  March  day.  The 
gutters  were  flowing,  the  house-porters  were  picking  at 
the  ice.  The  cabman's  sleigh  jolted  over  the  icy  snow, 
and  screeched  over  the  stones.  The  laundress  walked 
up  the  street  on  the  sunny  side,  went  to  the  church,  and 
seated  herself  at  the  entrance,  still  on  the  sunny  side. 
But  when  the  sun  began  to  sink  behind  the  houses,  the 
puddles  began  to  be  skimmed  over  with  a  glass  of  frost, 
and  the  laundress  grew  cold  and  wretched.  She  rose, 
and  dragged  herself  .  .  .  whither?  Home,  to  the 
only  home  where  she  had  lived  so  long.     While  she 


148  WHAT  TO  DO? 

was  on  her  waj^  resting  at  times,  dusk  descended. 
She  approached  the  gates,  turned  in,  slipped,  groaned 
and  fell. 

One  man  came  up,  and  then  another.  "  She  must 
be  drunk.'*  Another  man  came  up,  and  stumbled  over 
the  laundress,  and  said  to  the  porter  :  ''  What  drunken 
woman  is  this  wallowing  at  your  gate  ?  I  came  near 
breaking  my  head  over  her;  take  her  away,  won't 
you?" 

The  porter  came.  The  laundress  was  dead.  This  is 
what  my  friend  told  me.  It  may  be  thought  that  I  have 
wilfully  mixed  up  facts,  —  I  encounter  a  prostitute  of 
fifteen,  and  the  story  of  this  laundress.  But  let  no  one 
imagine  this  ;  it  is  exactly  what  happened  in  the  course 
of  one  night  (only  I  do  not  remember  which)  in  March, 
1884.  And  so,  after  hearing  my  friend's  tale,  1  went 
to  the  station-house,  with  the  intention  of  proceeding 
thence  to  the  Rzhanoff  house  to  inquire  more  minutely 
into  the  history  of  the  laundress.  The  weather  was 
ver}'  beautiful  and  sunny ;  and  again,  through  the 
stars  of  the  night-frost,  water  was  to  be  seen  trickling 
m  the  shade,  and  in  the  glare  of  the  sun  on  Khamov- 
nitchesky  square  every  thing  was  melting,  and  the 
water  was  streaming.  The  river  emitted  a  humming 
noise.  The  trees  of  the  Neskutchny  garden  looked 
blue  across  the  river ;  the  reddish-brown  sparrows,  in- 
visible in  winter,  attracted  attention  by  their  sprightli- 
ness ;  people  also  seemed  desirous  of  being  merry,  but 
all  of  them  had  too  many  cares.  The  sound  of  the 
bells  was  audible,  and  at  the  foundation  of  these  min- 
gling sounds,  the  sounds  of  shots  could  be  heard  from 
the  barracks,  the  whistle  of  rifle-balls  and  their  crack 
agamst  the  target. 

I  entered  the  station-house.     In  the  station  some 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      149 

armed  policemen  conducted  me  to  their  chief.  He 
was  similarly  armed  with  sword  and  pistol,  and  he  was 
engaged  in  taking  some  measures  with  regard  to  a 
tattered,  trembling  old  man,  who  was  standing  before 
him,  and  who  could  not  answer  the  questions  put  to 
him,  on  account  of  his  feebleness.  Having  finished 
his  business  with  the  old  man,  he  turned  to  me.  I  in- 
quired about  the  girl  of  the  night  before.  At  first  he 
listened  to  me  attentively,  but  afterwards  he  began  to 
smile  at  my  ignorance  of  the  regulations,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  she  had  been  taken  to  the  station- 
house,  and  particularly  at  my  surprise  at  her  youth. 

'^  Why,  there  are  plent}-  of  them  of  twelve,  thirteen, 
or  fourteen  years  of  age,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

But  in  answer  to  my  question  about  the  girl  whom  I 
had  seen  on  the  preceding  evening,  he  explained  to 
me  that  she  must  have  been  sent  to  the  committee  (so 
it  appeared) .  To  my  question  where  she  had  passed 
the  night,  he  replied  in  an  undecided  manner.  He  did 
not  recall  the  one  to  whom  I  referred.  There  were  so 
many  of  them  every  day. 

In  No.  32  of  the  Rzhanoff  house  I  found  the  sacris- 
tan already  reading  prayers  over  the  dead  woman. 
They  had  taken  her  to  the  bunk  which  she  had  formerly 
occupied ;  and  the  lodgers,  all  miserable  beings,  had 
collected  money  for  the  masses  for  her  soul,  a  coffin  and 
a  shroud,  and  the  old  women  had  dressed  her  and  laid 
her  out.  The  sacristan  was  reading  something  in  the 
gloom  ;  a  woman  in  a  long  wadded  cloak  was  standing 
there  with  a  wax  candle ;  and  a  man  (a  gentleman,  I 
must  state)  in  a  clean  coat  with  a  lamb's-skin  collar, 
polished  overshoes,  and  a  starched  shirt,  was  holding 
one  like  it.  This  was  her  brother.  They  had  hunted 
him  up. 


150  WffAT  TO  DO? 

I  went  past  the  dead  woman  to  the  landlady's  nook, 
and  questioned  her  about  the  whole  business. 

She  was  alarmed  at  my  queries  ;  she  was  evidently 
afraid  that  she  would  be  blamed  for  something ;  but 
afterwards  she  began  to  talk  freely,  and  told  me 
every  thing.  As  1  passed  back,  I  glanced  at  the  dead 
woman.  All  dead  people  are  handsome,  but  this 
dead  woman  was  particularly  beautiful  and  touching 
in  her  coffin  ;  her  pure,  pale  face,  with  closed  swollen 
eyes,  sunken  cheeks,  and  soft  reddish  hair  above  the 
lofty  brow,  —  a  weary  and  kind  and  not  a  sad  but  a 
surprised  face.  And  in  fact,  if  the  living  do  not  see, 
the  dead  are  surprised. 

On  the  same  day  that  I  wrote  the  above,  there  was 
a  great  ball  in  Moscow. 

That  night  I  left  the  house  at  nine  o'clock.  I  live 
in  a  locality  which  is  surrounded  by  factories,  and  I 
left  the  house  after  the  factory-whistles  had  sounded, 
releasing  the  people  for  a  day  of  freedom  after  a  week 
of  unremitting  toil. 

Factory -hands  overtook  me,  and  I  overtook  others 
of  them,  directing  their  steps  to  the  drinking-shops 
and  taverns.  Many  were  atready  intoxicated,  many 
were  women.  Every  morning  at  five  o'clock  we  can 
hear  one  whistle,  a  second,  a  third,  a  tenth,  and  so 
forth,  and  so  forth.  That  means  that  the  toil  of 
women,  children,  and  of  old  men  has  begun.  At  eight 
o'clock  another  whistle,  which  signifies  a  breathing- 
spell  of  half  an  hour.  At  twelve,  a  third  :  this  means 
an  hour  for  dinner.  And  a  fourth  at  eight,  which 
denotes  the  end  of  the  day. 

By  an  odd  coincidence,  all  three  of  the  factories 
which  are  situated  near  me  produce  only  articles  which 
are  in  demand  for  balls. 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      151 

In  one  factory,  the  nearest,  only  stockings  are  made  ; 
in  another  opposite,  silken  fabrics ;  in  the  third,  per- 
fumes and  pomades. 

It  is  possible  to  listen  to  these  whistles,  and  connect 
no  other  idea  with  them  than  as  denoting  the  time : 
"  There's  the  whistle  already,  it  is  time  to  go  to  walk." 
But  one  can  also  connect  with  those  whistles  that  which 
they  signifj-  in  reality  ;  that  first  whistle,  at  five  o'clock, 
means  that  people,  often  all  without  exception,  both 
men  and  women,  sleeping  in  a  damp  cellar,  must  rise, 
and  hasten  to  that  building  buzzing  with  machines,  and 
must  take  their  places  at  their  work,  whose  end  and  use 
for  themselves  they  do  not  see,  and  thus  toil,  often  in 
heat  and  a  stifling  atmosphere,  in  the  midst  of  dirt,  and 
with  the  very  briefest  breathing-spells,  an  hour,  two 
hours,  three  hours,  twelve,  and  even  more  hours  in  suc- 
cession. They  fall  into  a  doze,  and  again  they  rise. 
And  this,  for  them,  senseless  work,  to  which  they  are 
driven  only  by  necessity,  is  continued  over  and  over 
again. 

And  thus  one  week  succeeds  another  with  the  breaks 
of  holidays ;  and  I  see  these  work-i)eople  released  on 
one  of  these  holidays.  They  emerge  into  the  street. 
Everywhere  there  are  drinking-shops,  taverns,  and  loose 
girls.  And  they,  in  their  drunken  state,  drag  by  the 
hand  each  other,  and  girls  like  the  one  whom  I  saw 
taken  to  the  station-house ;  they  drag  with  them  cab- 
men, and  they  ride  and  they  walk  from  one  tavern  to 
another ;  and  they  curse  and  stagger,  and  say  they 
themselves  know  not  what.  I  had  previously  seen  such 
unsteady  gait  on  the  part  of  factory-hands,  and  had 
turned  aside  in  disgust,  and  had  been  on  the  point  of 
rebuking  them  ;  but  ever  since  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  hearing  those  whistles  every  day,  and  understand 


152  WHAT  TO  DOf 

their  meaning,  I  am  only  amazed  that  the}',  all  the 
men,  do  not  come  to  the  condition  of  the  "  golden 
squad,"  of  which  Moscow  is  full,^  [and  the  women  to 
the  state  of  the  one  whom  1  had  seen  near  my  house]  .^ 

Thus  I  walked  along,  and  scrutinized  these  factory- 
hands,  as  long  as  they  roamed  the  streets,  which  was 
until  eleven  o'clock.  Then  their  movements  began  to 
calm  down.  Some  drunken  men  remained  here  and 
there,  and  here  and  there  I  encountered  men  who  were 
being  taken  to  the  station-house.  And  then  carriages 
began  to  make  their  appearance  on  all  sides,  directing 
their  course  toward  one  point. 

On  the  box  sits  a  coachman,  sometimes  in  a  sheepskin 
coat ;  and  a  footman,  a  dand}^  with  a  cockade.  Well- 
fed  horses  in  saddle-cloths  fly  through  the  frost  at  the 
rate  of  twenty  versts  an  hour  ;  in  the  carriages  sit  ladies 
muffled  in  round  cloaks,  and  carefully  tending  their 
flowers  and  head-dresses.  Every  thing  from  the  horse- 
trappings,  the  carriages,  the  gutta-percha  wheels,  the 
cloth  of  the  coachman's  coat,  to  the  stockings,  shoes,- 
flowers,  velvet,  gloves,  and  perfumes,  —  every  thing  is 
made  by  those  people,  some  of  whom  often  roll  drunk 
into  their  dens  or  sleeping-rooms,  and  some  stay  with 
disreputable  women  in  the  night-lodging  houses,  while 
still  others  are  put  in  jail.  Thus  past  them  in  all  their 
work,  and  over  them  all,  ride  the  frequenters  of  balls ; 
and  it  never  enters  their  heads,  that  there  is  any  con- 
nection between  these  balls  to  which  they  make  ready 
to  go,  and  these  drunkards  at  whom  their  coachman 
shouts  so  roughly. 

These  people  enjoy  themselves  at  the  ball  with  the 
utmost  composure  of  spirit,  and  assurance  that  they 

1  •*  Into  a  worse  state,"  in  the  authorized  edition. 
*  Omitted  in  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      153 

are  doing  nothing  wrong,  but  something  very  good. 
Enjoy  themselves !  Enjoy  themselves  from  eleven 
o'clock  until  six  in  the  morning,  in  the  very  dead  of 
night,  at  the  very  hour  when  people  are  tossing  and 
turning  with  empty  stomachs  in  the  night-lodging 
houses,  and  while  some  are  dyhig,  as  did  the  laundress. 
Their  en joyment' consists  in  this,  —  that  the  women 
and  young  girls,  having  bared  their  necks  and  arms,  and 
applied  bustles  behind,  place  themselves  in  a  situation 
in  which  no  uncorrui)ted  woman  or  maiden  would  care 
to  display  herself  to  a  man,  on  any  consideration 
in  the  world  ;  and  in  this  half-naked  condition,  with 
their  uncovered  bosoms  exposed  to  view,  with  arms 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  with  a  bustle  behind  and  tightly 
swathed  hips,  under  the  most  brilliant  light,  women  and 
maidens,  whose  chief  virtue  has  always  been  modesty, 
exhibit  themselves  in  the  midst  of  strange  men,  who 
are  also  clad  m  improperly  tight-fitting  garments ; 
and  to  the  sound  of  maddening  music,  they  embrace 
and  whirl.  Old  women,  often  as  naked  as  the  young 
ones,  sit  and  look  on,  and  eat  and  drink  savory  things  ; 
old  men  do  the  same.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  this  should  take  place  at  night,  when  all  the  com- 
mon people  are  asleep,  so  that  no  one  may  see  them. 
But  this  is  not  done  with  the  object  of  concealment :  it 
seems  to  them  that  there  is  nothing  to  conceal ;  that 
it  is  a  very  good  thing  ;  that  by  this  merry-making,  in 
which  the  labor  of  thousands  of  toiling  people  is  de- 
stroyed, they  not  only  do  not  injure  au}^  one,  but  that 
by  this  very  act  they  furnish  the  poor  with  the  means  of 
subsistence.  Possibly  it  is  very  merry  at  balls.  But 
how  does  this  come  about?  When  we  see  that  there  is 
a  man  in  the  community,  in  our  midst,  who  has  had  no 
food,  or  who  is  freezing,  we  regret  our  mirth,  and  we 


154  WHAT  TO  DO? 

cannot  be  cheerful  until  he  is  fed  and  warmed,  not  to 
mention  the  impossibility  of  imagining  people  who  can 
indulge  in  such  mirth  as  causes  suffering  to  others. 
The  mirth  of  wicked  little  boys,  who  pinch  a  dog's  tail 
in  a  split  stick,  and  make  merry  over  it,  is  repulsive  and 
incomprehensible  to  us. 

In  the  same  manner  here,  in  these  diversions  of  ours, 
blindness  has  fallen  upon  us,  and  we  do  not  see  the 
split  stick  with  which  we  have  pinched  all  those  peo- 
ple who  suffer  for  our  amusement. 

[We  live  as  though  there  were  no  connection  between 
the  dying  laundress,  the  prostitute  of  fourteen,  and  our 
own  life  ;  and  yet  the  connection  between  them  strikes 
us  in  the  face. 

We  may  say  :  '^  But  we  personally  have  not  pinched 
any  tail  in  a  stick  ;  "  but  we  have  no  right  to  deny  that 
had  the  tail  not  been  pinched,  our  merry-making  would 
not  have  taken  place.  We  do  not  see  what  connec- 
tion exists  between  the  laundress  and  our  luxury  ;  but 
that  is  not  because  no  such  connection  does  exist,  but 
because  we  have  placed  a  screen  in  front  of  us,  so  that 
we  may  not  see. 

If  there  were  no  screen,  we  should  see  that  which  it 
is  impossible  not  to  see.]  ^ 

Surely  all  the  women  who  attended  that  ball  in  dressfes 
worth  a  hundred  and  fifty  rubles  each  were  born  not 
in  a  ballroom,  or  at  Madame  Minanguoit's ;  but  they 
have  lived  in  the  country,  and  have  seen  the  peasants  ; 
thej'  know  their  own  nurse  and  maid,  whose  father  and 
brother  are  poor,  for  whom  the  earning  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  rubles  for  a  cottage  is  the  object  of  a  long, 
laborious  life.  Each  woman  knows  this.  How  could 
she  enjoy  herself,  when  she  knew  that  she  wore  on  her 

1  Omitted  in  tlie  authorized  edition. 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      155 

bared  body  at  that  ball  the  cottage  which  is  the  dream 
of  her  good  maid's  father  and  brother?  But  let  us 
suppose  that  she  could  not  make  this  reflection  ;  but 
since  velvet  and  silk  and  flowers  and  lace  and  dresses 
do  not  grow  of  themselves,  but  are  made  b}'  people,  it 
would  seem  that  she  could  not  help  knowing  what  sort 
of  people  make  all  these  things,  and  under  what  condi- 
tions, and  why  they  do  it.  She  cannot  fail  to  know 
that  the  seamstress,  with  whom  she  has  already  quar- 
relled, did  not  make  her  dress  in  the  least  out  of 'love 
for  her;  therefore,  she  cannot  help  knowing  that  all 
these  things  were  made  for  her  as  a  matter  of  necessity, 
that  her  laces,  flowers,  and  velvet  have  been  made  in 
the  same  way  as  her  dress. 

But  possibly  they  are  in  such  darkness  that  they  do 
not  consider  this.  One  thing  she  cannot  fail  to  know, 
—  that  five  or  six  elderly  and  respectable,  often  sick, 
lackeys  and  maids  have  had  no  sleep,  and  have  been 
put  to  trouble  on  her  account.  She  has  seen  their 
weary,  gloomy  faces.  She  could  not  help  knowing 
this  also,  that  the  cold  that  night  reached  twenty-eight 
degrees  below  zero,^  and  that  the  old  coachman  sat  all 
night  long  in  that  temperature  on  his  box.  But  I 
know  that  the}'  really  do  not  see  this.  'And  if  they, 
these  young  women  and  girls,  do  not  see  this,  on 
account  of  the  hypnotic  state  superinduced  in  them  by 
balls,  it  is  impossible  to  condemn  them.  They,  poor 
things,  have  done  what  is  considered  right  by  their 
elders ;  but  how  are  their  elders  to  explain  away  this 
their  cruelty  to  the  people  ? 

The  elders  always  offer  the  explanation  :  "  I  compel 
no  one.  I  purchase  my  things ;  I  hire  my  men,  my 
maid-servants,  and  my  coachman.     There  is  nothing 

*  Reaumur. 


156  WHAT   TO   DOf 

wrong  in  buying  and  hiring.  I  force  no  one's  inclina- 
tion :  I  hire,  and  what  harm  is  there  in  that?  " 

I  recently  went  to  see  an  acquaintance.  As  I  passed 
through  one  of  the  rooms,  1  was  surprised  to  see  two 
women  seated  at  a  table,  as  I  knew  that  my  friend  was 
a  bachelor.  A  thin,  yellow,  old-fashioned  woman, 
thirty  years  of  age,  in  a  dress  that  had  been  carelessly 
thrown  on,  was  doing  something  with  her  hands  and 
fingers  on  the  table,  with  great  speed,  trembling  nerv- 
ously the  while,  as  though  in  a  fit.  Opposite  her  sat 
a  young  girl,  who  was  also  engaged  in  something, 
and  who  trembled  in  the  same  manner.  Both  ^Yomen 
appeared  to  be  afflicted  with  St.  Vitus'  dance.  I 
stepped  nearer  to  them,  and  looked  to  see  what  they 
were  doing.  The}'  raised  their  eyes  to  me,  but  went 
on  with  their  work  with  the  same  intentness.  In  front 
of  them  lay  scattered  tobacco  and  paper  cases.  They 
were  making  cigarettes.  The  woman  rubbed  the 
tobacco  between  her  hands,  pushed  it  into  the  machine, 
slipped  on  the  cover,  thrust  the  tobacco  through,  then 
tossed  it  to  the  girl.  The  girl  twisted  the  paper,  and, 
making  it  fast,  threw  it  aside,  and  took  up  another. 
All  this  was  done  with  such  swiftness,  with  such  in- 
tentness, as  it  is  impossible  to  describe  to  a  man  who 
has  never  seen  it  done.  I  expressed  my  surprise  at 
their  quickness. 

"  I  have  been  doing  nothing  else  for  fourteen  years," 
said  the  woman. 

''Is  it  hard?" 

''Yes:  it  pains  my  chest,  and  makes  my  breathing 
hard." 

It  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  add  this,  however. 
A  look  at  the  girl  sufficed.  She  had  worked  at  this 
for  three  years,  but  any  one  who  had  not  seen  her  at 


THOUGFITS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      157 

this  occupation  would  have  said  that  here  was  a  strong 
organism  which  was  beginning  to  break  down. 

My  friend,  a  kind  and  liberal  man,  hires  these  women 
to  fill  his  cigarettes  at  two  rubles  fifty  kopeks  the  thou- 
sand. He  has  money,  and  he  spends  it  for  work. 
What  harm  is  there  in  that?  My  friend  rises  at 
twelve  o'clock.  He  passes  the  evening,  from  six  until 
two,  at  cards,  or  at  the  piano.  He  eats  and  drinks 
savory  things  ;  others  do  all  his  work  for  him'.  He  has 
devised  a  new  source  of  pleasure,  —  smoking.  He 
has  taken  up  smoking  within  vay  memory. 

Here  is  a  woman,  and  here  is  a  girl,  who  can  barely 
support  themselves  by  turning  themselves  into  ma- 
chines, and  they  pass  their  whole  lives  inhaling  tobacco, 
and  thereby  ruining  their  health.  He  has  money  which 
he  never  earned,  and  he  prefers  to  play  at  whist  to  mak- 
ing his  own  cigarettes.  He  gives  these  women  money 
on  condition  that  they  shall  continue  to  live  in  the 
same  wretched  manner  in  which  they  are  now  living, 
that  is  to  say,  by  making  his  cigarettes. 

I  love  cleanliness,  and  I  give  money  only  on  the 
condition  that  the  laundress  shall  wash  the  shirt  which 
I  change  twice  a  day  ;  and  that  shirt  has  destroyed  the 
laundress's  last  remaining  strength,  and  she  has  died. 
What  is  there  wrong  about  that  ?  People  who  buy  and 
hire  will  continue  to  force  other  people  to  make  velvet 
and  confections,  and  will  purchase  them,  without  me  ; 
and  no  matter  what  I  may  do,  they  will  hire  cigarettes 
made  and  shirts  washed.  Then  why  should  I  deprive 
myself  of  velvet  and  confections  and  cigarettes  and 
clean  shirts,  if  things  are  definitively  settled  thus  ?  This 
is  the  argument  which  I  often,  ahnost  always,  hear. 
This  is  the  very  argument  which  makes  the  mob  wliich 
is  destroying  something,  lose  its  senses.     This  is  the 


158  WHAT  TO  DO? 

very  argument  by  which  dogs  are  guided  when  one 
of  them  has  flung  himself  on  another  dog,  and  over- 
thrown him,  and  the  rest  of  the  pack  rush  up  also,  and 
tear  their  comrade  in  pieces.  Other  people  have  begun 
it,  and  have  wrought  mischief;  then  why  should  not 
I  take  advantage  of  it?  Well,  what  will  happen  if  I 
wear  a  soiled  shirt,  and  make  my  own  cigarettes? 
Will  that  make  it  easier  for  anybody  else  ?  ask  people 
who  would  like  to  justify  their  course.  If  it  were 
not  so  far  from  the  truth,  it  would  be  a  shame  to  an- 
swer such  a  question,  but  we  have  become  so  entangled 
that  this  question  seems  very  natural  to  us ;  and  hence, 
although  it  is  a  shame,  it  is  necessary  to  reply  to  it. 

What  difference  will  it  make  if  I  wear  one  shirt  a 
week,  and  make  my  own  cigarettes,  or  do  not  smoke 
at  all?  This  difference,  that  some  laundress  and  some 
cigarette-maker  will  exert  their  strength  less,  and  that 
what  I  have  spent  for  washing  and  for  the  making  of 
cigarettes  I  can  give  to  that  very  laundress,  or  even  to 
other  laundresses  and  toilers  who  are  worn  out  with 
their  labor,  and  who,  instead  of  laboring  beyond  their 
strength,  will  then  be  able  to  rest,  and  drink  tea.  But 
to  this  I  hear  an  objection.  (It  is  so  mortifying  to 
rich  and  luxurious  people  to  understand  their  position.) 
To  this  they  say:  "  If  I  go  about  in  a  dirty  shirt,  an(i 
give  up  smoking,  and  hand  over  this  money  to  the 
poor,  the  poor  will  still  be  deprived  of  every  thing, 
and  that  drop  in  the  sea  of  3'ours  will  help  not  at  all.'* 

Such  an  objection  it  is  a  shame  to  answer.  It  is 
such  a  common  retort.^ 

»  In  the  Moscow  edition  (authorized  by  the  Censor),  the  concluding  para- 
graph is  replaced  by  the  following :  — 

"  They  say  :  The  action  of  a  single  man  is  but  a  drop  in  the  sea.  A  drop 
in  the  sea ! 

"  There  is  an  Indian  legend  relating  how  a  man  dropped  a  pearl  into  the 


THOUGnTS   EVOKED   BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      159 

If  I  had  gone  among  savages,  and  they  had  regaled 
me  with  cutlets  which  struck  me  as  savory,  and  if  I 
should  learn  on  the  following  day  that  these  savory 
cutlets  had  been  made  from  a  prisoner  whom  they  had 
slain  for  the  sake  of  the  savory  cutlets,  if  I  do  not 
admit  that  it  is  a  good  thing  to  eat  men,  then,  no  mat- 
ter how  dainty  the  cutlets,  no  matter  how  universal 
the  practice  of  eating  men  may  be  among  my  fellows, 
however  insignificant  the  advantage  to  prisoners,  pre- 
pared for  consumption,  may  be  my  refusal  to  eat  of  the 
cutlets,  I  will  not  and  I  can  not  eat  any  more  of  them. 
I  may,  possibly,  eat  human  flesh,  when  hunger  compels 
me  to  it ;  but  I  will  not  make  a  feast,  and  I  will  not 
take  part  in  feasts,  of  human  flesh,  and  I  will  not  seek 
out  such  feasts,  and  pride  myself  on  my  share  in  them. 

LIFE   IN   THE    COUNTRY. 

But  what  is  to  be  done?  Surely  it  is  not  we  who 
have  done  this  ?     And  if  not  we,  who  then  ? 

We  say:  "We  have  not  done  this,  this  has  done 
itself  ;  "  as  the  children  say,  when  they  break  any  thing, 
that  it  broke  itself.  We  say,  that,  so  long  as  there  is 
a  city  already  in  existence,  we,  by  living  in  it,  support 
the  people,  by  purchasing   their   labor   and   services. 

sea,  and  in  order  to  recover  it  he  took  a  bucket,  and  began  to  bail  out,  and 
to  pour  the  water  on  the  shore.  Thus  he  toiled  without  intermission,  and 
on  the  seventh  day  the  spirit  of  the  sea  grew  alarmed  lest  the  man  should 
dip  the  sea  dry,  and  so  he  brought  him  his  pearl.  If  our  social  evil  of  perse- 
cuting man  were  the  sea,  then  that  pearl  which  we  have  lost  is  equivalent  to 
devoting  our  lives  to  bailing  out  the  sea  of  that  evil.  The  prince  of  this 
world  will  take  fright,  he  will  succumb  more  promptly  than  did  the  spirit  of 
the  sea ;  but  this  social  evil  is  not  the  sea,  but  a  foul  cesspool,  which  we  aseidu- 
ously  fill  with  our  own  uncleanness.  All  that  is  required  is  for  us  to  come 
to  our  senses,  and  to  comprehend  what  we  are  doing;  to  fall  out  of  love  with 
our  own  uncleanness,  —  in  order  that  that  imaginary  sea  should  dry  away, 
and  that  we  should  come  into  possession  of  that  priceless  pearl,  —  fraternal, 
humane  life." 


160  WHAT   TO   DOf 

But  this  is  not  so.  And  this  is  why.  We  only  need  to 
look  ourselves,  at  the  wa}^  we  live  in  the  country,  and 
at  the  manner  in  which  we  support  people  there. 

The  winter  passes  in  town.  Piaster  Week  passes. 
On  the  boulevards,  in  the  gardens,  in  the  parks,  on  the 
river,  there  is  music.  There  are  theatres,  water-trips, 
walks,  all  sorts  of  illuminations  and  fireworks.  But  in 
the  country  there  is  something  even  better,  —  there  are 
better  air,  trees  and  meadows,  and  the  flowers  are 
fresher.  One  should  go  thither  where  all  these  things 
have  unfolded  and  blossomed  forth.  And  the  majority 
of  wealthy  people  do  go  to  the  country  to  brv3athe  the 
superior  air,  to  survey  these  superior  forests  and  mead- 
ows. And  there  the  wealthy  settle  down  m  the  coun- 
try, amid  the  gray  peasants,  who  nourish  themselves 
on  bread  and  onions,  who  toil  eighteen  hours  a  day, 
who  get  no  sound  sleep  by  night,  and  who  are  clad  in 
blouses.  Here  no  one  has  led  these  people  astray. 
There  have  been  no  factories  nor  nidustrial  establish- 
ments, and  there  are  none  of  those  idle  hands,  of  which 
there  are  so  many  in  the  city.  Here  the  whole  popu- 
lation never  succeeds,  all  summer  long,  in  completing 
all  their  tasks  in  season  ;  and  not  only  are  there  no 
idle  hands,  but  a  vast  quantity  of  property  is  ruined 
for  the  lack  of  hands,  and  a  throng  of  people,  chil- , 
dren,  old  men,  and  women,  will  perish  through  over- 
straining their  powers  in  work  which  is  beyond  their 
strength.  How  do  the  rich  order  their  lives  there  ?  In 
this  fashion  :  — 

If  there  is  an  old-fashioned  house,  built  under  the 
serf  regime,  that  house  is  repaired  and  embellished  ;  if 
there  is  none,  then  a  new  one  is  erected,  of  two  or 
three  stories.  The  rooms,  of  which  there  are  from 
twelve  to  twenty,  and  even  more,  are  all  six  arshins  in 


TIIOUGflTS  EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      161 

height.^  Wood  floors  are  laid  down.  The  windows 
consist  of  one  sheet  of  glass.  There  are  rich  rugs  and 
costly  furniture.  The  roads  around  the  house  are 
macadamized,  the  ground  is  levelled,  flower-beds  are 
laid  out,  croquet-grounds  are  prepared,  swinging-rings 
for  gymnastics  are  erected,  reflecting  globes,  often 
orangeries,  and  hotbeds,  and  lofty  stables  alwa^'s  with 
complicated  scroll-work  on  the  gables  and  ridges. 

And  here,  in  the  country,  an  honest  educated  offi- 
cial, or  noble  family  dwells.  All  the  members  of  the 
family  and  their,  guests  have  assembled  in  the  middle 
of  June,  because  up  to  June,  that  is  to  say,  up  to  the 
beginning  of  mowing-time,  they  have  "been  studying 
and  undergoing  examinations  ;  and  they  live  there  until 
September,  that  is  to  say,  until  harvest  and  sowing- 
time.  The  members  of  this  family  (as  is  the  case  with 
nearly  every  one  in  that  circle)  have  lived  in  the  coun- 
tiy  from  the  beginning  of  the  press  of  work,  the  suffer- 
ing time,  not  until  the  end  of  the  season  of  toil  (for  in 
September  sowing  is  still  in  progress,  as  well  as  the 
digging  of  potatoes),  but  until  the  strain  of  work  has 
relaxed  a  little.  During  the  whole  of  their  residence  in 
the  country,  all  around  them  and  beside  them,  that 
summer  toil  of  the  peasantry  has  been  going  on,  of 
whose  fatigues,  no  matter  how  much  we  may  have 
heard,  no  matter  how  much  we  may  have  read  about 
it,  no  matter  how  much  we  may  have  gazed  upon  it, 
we  .  can  form  no  idea,  unless  we  have  had  personal 
experience  of  it.  And  the  members  of  this  family, 
about  ten  in  number,  live  exactly  as  they  do  in  the  city. 

At  St.  Peter's  Day,^  a  strict  fast,  when  the  people's 


*  An  arebin  is  twenty  eight  inches. 

»  The  fast  extends  from  the  5th  to  the  30th  of  June,  O.S.  (June  27  to  July 
12,  N.S.) 


162  WHAT  TO  DO? 

food  consists  of  kvas,  bread,  and  onions,  the  mowing 
begins. 

The  business  which  is  effected  in  mowing  is  one  of 
the  most  important  in  the  commune.  Nearly  every 
year,  through  the  lack  of  hands  and  time,  the  hay 
crop  may  be  lost  by  rain  ;  and  more  or  less  strain  of 
toil  decides  the  question,  as  to  whether  twenty  or  more 
per  cent  of  hay  is  to  be  added  to  the  wealth  of  the 
people,  or  whether  it  is  to  rot  or  die  where  it  stands. 
And  additional  hay  means  additional  meat  for  the  old, 
and  additional  milk  for  the  children.  Thus,  in  gen- 
eral and  in  particular,  the  question  of  bread  for  each 
one  of  the  mowers,  and  of  milk  for  himself  and  his 
children,  in  the  ensuing  winter,  is  then  decided.  Every 
one  of  the  toilers,  both  male  and  female,  knows  this ; 
even  the  children  know  that  this  is  an  important  matter, 
and  that  it  is  necessary  to  strain  every  nerve  to  carry 
the  jug  of  kvas  to  their  father  in  the  meadow  at  his 
mowing,  and,  shifting  the  heavy  pitcher  from  hand  to 
hand,  to  run  barefooted  as  rapidly  as  possible,  two 
versts  from  the  village,  in  order  to  get  there  in  season 
for  dinner,  and  so  that  their  fathers  may  not  scold 
them. 

Every  one  knows,  that,  from  the  mowing  season 
until  the  hay  is  got  in,  there  will  be  no  break  in  the 
work,  and  that  there  will  be  no  time  to  breathe.  And 
there  is  not  the  mowing  alone.  Every  one  of  them 
has  other  affairs  to  attend  to  besides  the  mowing :  the 
ground  must  be  turned  up  and  harrowed ;  and  the 
women  have  linen  and  bread  and  washing  to  attend  to ; 
and  the  peasants  have  to  go  to  the  mill,  and  to  town, 
and  there  are  communal  matters  to  attend  to,  and  legal 
matters  before  the  judge  and  the  commissary  of  police  ; 
and  the  wagons  to  see  to,  and  the  horses  to  feed  at 


THOUGHTS   EVOKED   BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW       163 

night :  and  all,  old  and  young,  and  sickly,  labor  to  the 
last  extent  of  their  powers.  The  peasants  toil  so,  that 
on  every  occasion,  the  mowers,  before  the  end  of  the 
third  stint,  whether  weak,  young,  or  old,  can  hardly 
walk  as  they  totter  past  the  last  rows,  and  only  with 
difficulty  are  they  able  to  rise  after  the  breathing-spell ; 
and  the  women,  often  pregnant,  or  nursing  infants,  work 
in  the  same  way.  The  toil  is  intense  and  incessant. 
All  work  to  the  extreme  bounds  of  their  strength,  and 
expend  in  this  toil,  not  only  the  entire  stock  of  their 
scanty  nourishment,  but  all  their  previous  stock.  All 
of  them  —  and  they  are  not  fat  to  begin  with  —  grow 
gaunt  after  the  "  suffering  "  season. 

Here  a  little  association  is  working  at  the  mowing ; 
three  peasants,  —  one  an  old  man,  the  second  his 
nephew,  a  young  married  man,  and  a  shoemaker,  a 
thin,  sinewy  man.  This  hay-harvest  will  decide  the 
fate  of  all  of  them  for  the  winter.  They  have  been 
laboring  incessantly  for  two  weeks,  without  rest.  The 
rain  has  delayed  their  work.  After  the  rain,  when  the 
hay  has  dried,  they  have  decided  to  stack  it,  and,  in 
order  to  accomplish  this  as  speedily  as  possible,  that 
two  women  for  each  of  them  shall  follow  their  scythes. 
On  the  part  of  the  old  man  go  his  wife,  a  woman 
of  fifty,  who  has  become  unfit  for  work,  having  borne 
eleven  children,  who  is  deaf,  but  still  a  tolerably 
stout  worker ;  and  a  thirteen-year-old  daughter,  who 
is  short  of  stature,  but  a  strong  and  clever  girl.  On 
the  part  of  his  nephew  go  his  wife,  a  woman  as 
strong  and  well-grown  as  a  sturdy  peasant,  and  his 
daughter-in-law,  a  soldier's  wife,  who  is  about  to 
become  a  mother.  On  the  part  of  the  shoemaker  go 
his  wife,  a  stout  laborer,  and  her  aged  mother,  who 
has   reached   her  eightieth   year,  and  who  generally 


164  WHAT  TO  DO? 

goes  begging.  They  all  stand  in  line,  and  labor 
from  morning  till  night,  in  the  full  fervor  of  the  June 
sun.  It  is  steaming  hot,  and  rain  threatens.  Every 
hour  of  work  is  precious.  It  is  a  pity  to  tear  one's 
self  from  work  to  fetch  water  or  kvas.  A  tiny 
boy,  the  old  woman's  grandson,  brings  them  water. 
The  old  woman,  evidently  only  anxious  lest  she  shall 
be  driven  away  from  her  work,  will  not  let  the  rake 
out  of  her  hand,  though  it  is  evident  that  she  can 
barely  move,  and  only  with  difficulty.  The  little  boy, 
all  bent  over,  and  stepping  gently,  with  his  tiny  bare 
feet,  drags  along  a  jug  of  water,  shifting  it  from  hand 
to  hand,  for  it  is  heavier  than  he.  The  young  girl 
flings  over  her  shoulder  a  load  of  hay  which  is  also 
heavier  than  herself,  advances  a  few  steps,  halts,  and 
drops  it,  without  the  strength  to  carry  it.  The  old 
wom^n  of  fifty  rakes  away  without  stopping,  and  with 
her  kerchief  awry  she  drags  the  hay,  breathing  heav- 
ily and  tottering.  The  old  woman  of  eighty  only  rakes 
the  hay,  but  even  this  is  beyond  her  strength ;  she 
slowly  drags  along  her  feet,  shod  with  bast  shoes, 
and,  frowning,  she  gazes  gloomily  before  her,  like  a 
seriously  ill  or  dying  person.  The  old  man  has  in- 
tentionally sent  her  farther  away  than  the  rest,  to 
rake  near  the  cocks  of  hay,  so  that  she  may  not 
keep  in  line  with  the  others  ;  but  she  does  not  fall 
in  with  this  arrangement,  and  she  toils  on  as  long  as 
the  others  do,  with  the  same  death-like,  gloomy  coun- 
tenance. The  sun  is  already  setting  behind  the  for- 
est ;  but  the  cocks  are  not  yet  all  heaped  together, 
and  much  still  remains  to  do.  All  feel  that  it  is  time 
to  stop,  but  no  one  speaks,  waiting  until  the  others 
shall  say  it.  Finally  the  shoemaker,  conscious  that 
his  strength  is  exhausted,  proposes  to  the   old  man, 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY   CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      165 

to  leave  the  cocks  until  the  morrow ;  and  the  old  man 
consents,  and  the  women  instantly  run  for  the  gar- 
ments, jugs,  pitchforks ;  and  the  old  woman  immedi- 
ately sits  down  just  where  she  has  been  standing,  and 
then  lies  back  with  the  same  death-like  look,  staring 
straight  in  front  of  her.  But  the  women  are  going ; 
and  she  rises  with  a  groan,  and  drags  herself  after 
them.  And  this  will  go  on  in  July  also,  when  the 
peasants,  without  obtaining  sufficient  sleep,  reap  the 
oats  by  night,  lest  it  should  fall,  and  the  women  rise 
gloomily  to  thresh  out  the  straw  for  the  bands  to  tie 
the  sheaves ;  when  this  old  woman,  already  utterly 
cramped  by  the  labor  of  mowing,  and  the  woman  with 
child,  and  the  young  children,  injure  themselves  over- 
working and  over-drinking  ;  and  when  neither  hands, 
nor  horses,  nor  carts  will  suffice  to  bring  to  the  ricks 
that  grain  with  which  all  men  are  nourished,  and  mil- 
lions of  poods  ^  of  which  are  daily  required  in  Russia 
to  keep  people  from  perishmg. 

And  we  live  as  though  there  were  no  connection 
between  the  dying  laundress,  the  prostitute  of  four- 
teen years,  the  toilsome  manufacture  of  cigarettes  by 
women,  the  strained,  intolerable,  insufficiently  fed  toil 
of  old  women  and  children  around  us ;  we  live  as 
though  there  were  no  connection  between  this  and  our 
own  lives. 

It  seems  to  us,  that  suffering  stands  apart  by  itself, 
and  our  life  apart  by  itself.  We  read  the  description 
of  the  life  of  the  Romans,  and  we  marvel  at  the  inhu- 
manity of  those  soulless  Luculli,  who  satiated  them- 
selves on  viands  and  wines  while  the  populace  were 
dying  with  hunger.  We  shake  our  heads,  and  we  marvel 

1  A  pood  is  thirty-six  pounds. 


166  WHAT  TO  DOT 

at  the  savagery  of  our  grandfathers,  wlio  were  serf- 
owiiers,  supporters  of  household  orchestras  and  thea- 
tres, and  of  whole  villages  devoted  to  the  care  of  their 
gardens ;  and  we  wonder,  from  the  heights  of  our 
grandeur,  at  their  inhumanity.  We  read  the  words  of 
Isa.  V.  8  :  "  Woe  unto  them  that  join  house  to  house, 
that  lay  field  to  field,  till  there  be  no  place,  that  they 
may  be  placed  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  earth!  (11.) 
Woe  unto  them  that  rise  up  early  in  the  morning,  that 
they  may  follow  strong  drink  ;  that  continue  until  night, 
till  wine  inflame  them !  (12.)  And  the  harp  and  the 
viol,  and  tabret  and  pipe,  and  wine  are  in  their  feasts ; 
but  they  regard  not  the  work  of  the  Lord,  neither  con- 
sider the  operation  of  his  hands.  (18.)  Woe  unto 
them  that  draw  iniquity  with  cords  of  vanity,  and  sin 
as  it  were  with  a  cart-rope.  (20.)  Woe  unto  them  that 
call  evil  good,  and  good  evil ;  that  put  darkness  for 
light,  and  light  for  darkness  ;  that  put  bitter  for  sweet, 
and  sweet  for  bitter!  (21.)  Woe  unto  them  that  are 
wise  in  their  own  eyes,  and  prudent  in  their  own  sight. 
(22.)  Woe  unto  them  that  are  mighty  to  drink  wine, 
and  men  of  strength  to  mingle  strong  drink." 

We  read  these  words,  and  it  seems  to  us  that  this 
has  no  reference  to  us.  We  read  in  the  Gospels 
(Matt.  iii.  10)  :  ''And  now  also  the  axe  is  laid  unto 
the  root  of  the  trees :  therefore  every  tree  which  bring- 
eth  not  forth  good  fruit  is  hewn  down  and  cast  into 
the  fire." 

And  we  are  fully  convinced  that  the  good  tree  which 
bringeth  forth  good  fruit  is  ourselves ;  and  that  these 
words  are  not  spoken  to  us,  but  to  some  other  and 
wicked  people. 

We  read  the  words  ol  Isa.  vi.  10 ;  ''  Make  the  heart 
of  this  people  fat,  and  make  their  ears  heavy,  and  shut 


THOUGHTS  EVOKED  BY  CENSUS   OF  MOSCOW.      167 

their  eyes  ;  lest  they  see  with  their  eyes,  and  hear  with 
their  ears,  and  understand  with  their  heart,  and  eon- 
vert  and  be  healed.  (H.)  Then  said  I:  Lord,  how 
long?  And  he  answered.  Until  the  cities  be  wasted 
without  inhabitant,  and  the  houses  without  man,  and 
the  land  be  utterly  desolate." 

We  read,  and  are  fully  convinced  that  this  marvellous 
deed  is  not  performed  on  us,  but  on  some  other  people. 
And  because  we  see  nothing  it  is,  that  this  marvellous 
deed  is  performed,  and  has  been  performed,  on  us. 
We  hear  not,  we  see  not,  and  we  understand  not  with 
our  heart.     How  has  this  happened  ? 

Whether  that  God,  or  tiiat  natural  law  by  virtue  of 
which  men  exist  in  the  world,  has  acted  well  or  ill,  yet 
the  position  of  men  in  the  world,  ever  since  we  have 
known  it,  has  been  such,  that  naked  people,  with- 
out any  hair  on  their  bodies,  without  lairs  in  which 
they  could  shelter  themselves,  without  food  which  they 
could  find  in  the  fields, — like  Robinson^  on  his  island, 
—  have  all  been  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  constantly 
and  unweariedly  contending  with  nature  in  order  to 
cover  their  bodies,  to  make  themselves  clothing,  to 
construct  a  roof  over  their  heads,  and  to  earn  their 
bread,  that  two  or  three  times  a  day  they  may  satisfy 
their  hunger  and  the  hunger  of  their  helpless  children 
and  of  their  old  people  who  cannot  work. 

Wherever,  at  whatever  time,  in  whatever  numbers 
we  may  have  observed  people,  whether  in  Europe,  in 
America,  in  China,  or  in  Russia,  whether  we  regard  all 
humanity,  or  any  small  portion  of  it,  in  ancient  times, 
in  a  nomad  state,  or  in  our  own  times,  with  steam- 
engines  and  sewing-machines,  perfected  agriculture, 
and  electric  lighting,  we  behold  always  one  and  the 

1  Bobinson  Crusoe. 


168  WFTAT   TO  DOf 

same  thing,  —  that  man,  toiling  intensely  and  inces- 
santly, is  not  able  to  earn  for  himself  and  his  little 
ones  and  his  old  people  clothing,  shelter,  and  food  ;  and 
that  a  considerable  portion  of  mankind,  as  in  former 
times,  so  at  the  present  day,  perish  through  insufficien- 
cy of  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  intolerable  toil  in  the 
effort  to  obtain  them. 

Wherever  we  live,  if  we  draw  a  circle  round  us  of  a 
hundred  thousand,  a  thousand,  or  ten  versts,  or  of  one 
verst,  and  examine  into  the  lives  of  the  people  com- 
prehended within  the  limits  of  our  circle,  we  shall  see 
within  that  circle  prematurely-born  children,  old  men, 
old  women,  women  in  labor,  sick  and  weak  persons, 
who  toil  beyond  their  strength,  and  who  have  not 
sufficient  food  and  rest  for  life,  and  who  therefore  die 
before  their  time.  We  shall  see  people  in  the  flower 
of  their  age  actually  slain  by  dangerous  and  injurious 
work. 

We  see  that  people  have  been  struggling,  ever  since 
the  world  has  endured,  with  fearful  effort,  privation, 
and  suffering,  against  this  universal  want,  and  that 
they  cannot  overcome  it.  .  .  .^ 

1  Here  something  has  been  omitted  by  the  Censor,  which  I  am  unable  to 
supply.  —  Trans. 


ON    THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    SCIENCE 
AND  ART. 


.  .  .^  The  justification  of  all  persons  who  have 
freed  themselves  from  toil  is  now  founded  on  experi- 
mental, positive  science.  The  scientific  theory  is  as 
follows :  — 

*'  For  the  stud}'  of  the  laws  of  life  of  human  socie- 
ties, there  exists  but  one  indubitable  method, — the 
positive,  experimental,  critical  method. 

"  Only  sociology,  founded  on  biology,  founded  on 
all  the  positive  sciences,  can  give  us  the  laws  of 
humanity.  Humanity,  or  human  communities,  are  the 
organisms  already  prepared,  or  still  in  process  of  for- 
mation, and  which  are  subservient  to  all  the  laws  of 
the  evolution  of  organisms. 

''  One  of  the  chief  of  these  laws  is  the  variation  of 
destination  among  the  portions  of  the  organs.  Some 
people  command,  others  obey.  If  some  live  in  super- 
abundance, and  others  in  want,  this  arises  not  from 
the  will  of  God,  not  because  the  empire  is  a  form  of 
manifestation  of  personality,  but  because  in  societies, 
as  in  organisms,  division  of  labor  becomes  indispens- 
able for  life  as  a  whole.  Some  people  perform  the 
muscular  labor  in  societies  ;  others,  the  mental  labor." 

*  An  omission  by  the  Censor,  which  1  am  unable  to  supply.  —Trans. 

169 


170  WffAT  TO  DO? 

Upon  this  doctrine  is  founded  the  prevailing  justifi- 
cation of  our  time. 

Not  long  ago,  there  reigned  in  the  learned,  cultivated 
world,  a  moral  philosophy,  according  to  which  it  ap- 
peared that  every  thing  which  exists  is  reasonable ; 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  evil  or  good ;  and  that  it 
is  unnecessary  for  man  to  war  against  evil,  but  that 
it  is  only  necessary  for  him  to  display  intelligence,  — 
one  man  in  the  military  service,  another  in  the  judi- 
cial, another  on  the  violin.  There  have  been  many 
and  varied  expressions  of  human  wisdom,  and  these 
phenomena  were  known  to  the  men  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  wisdom  of  Rousseau  and  of  Lessing, 
and  Spinoza  and  Bruno,  and  all  the  wisdom  of  anti- 
quity;  but  no  one  man's  wisdom  overrode  the  crowd. 
It  was  impossible  to  say  even  this,  —  that  Hegel's  suc- 
cess was  the  result  of  the  symmetry  of  this  theory. 
There  were  other  equally  symmetrical  theories,  —  those 
of  Descartes,  Leibnitz,  Fichte,  Schopenhauer.  There 
was  but  one  reason  why  this  doctrine  won  for  itself, 
for  a  season,  the  belief  of  the  whole  world ;  and  this 
reason  was,  that  the  deductions  of  that  philosophy 
winked  at  people's  weaknesses.  These  deductions 
were  summed  up  in  this,  —  that  every  thing  was  rea- 
sonable, every  thing  good ;  and  that  no  one  was  ta 
blame. 

When  I  began  my  career,  Hegelianism  was  the  foun- 
dation of  every  thing.  It  was  floating  in  the  air ;  it 
was  expressed  in  newspaper  and  periodical  articles,  in 
historical  and  judicial  lectures,  in  novels,  in  treatises, 
in  art,  m  sermons,  in  conversation.  The  man  who 
was  not  acquainted  with  Hegel  had  no  right  to  speak. 
Any  one  who  desired  to  understand  the  truth  studied 
Hegel.     Every  thing  rested  on  him.     And  all  at  once 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      171 

the  forties  passed,  and  there  was  nothing  left  of  him. 
There  was  not  even  a  hint  of  him,  any  more  than  if 
he  had  never  existed.  And  the  most  amazino^  thinsj 
of  all  was,  that  Hegelian  ism  did  not  fall  because  some 
one  overthrew  it  or  destroyed  it.  No !  It  was  the 
same  then  as  now,  but  all  at  once  it  appeared  that  it 
was  of  no  use  whatever  to  the  learned  and  cultivated 
world. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  Hegelian  wise  men  tri- 
umphantly instructed  the  masses ;  and  the  crowd, 
understanding  nothing,  blindly  believed  in  every  thing, 
finding  confirmation  in  the  fact  that  it  was  on  hand ; 
and  they  believed  that  what  seemed  to  them  muddy  and 
contradictory  there  on  the  heights  of  philosophy  was 
all  as  clear  as  the  dsiy.  But  that  time  has  gone  by. 
That  theory  is  worn  out ;  a  new  theory  has  presented 
itself  in  its  stead.  The  old  one  has  become  useless ; 
and  the  crowd  has  looked  into  the  secret  sanctuaries 
of  the  high  priests,  and  has  seen  that  there  is  nothing 
there,  and  that  there  has  been  nothing  there,  save  very 
obscure  and  senseless  words.  This  has  taken  place 
within  my  memory. 

"But  this  arises,"  people  of  the  present  science 
will  say,  "  from  the  fact  that  all  that  was  the  raving 
of  the  theological  and  metaphysical  period ;  but  now 
there  exists  positive,  critical  science,  which  does  not 
deceive,  smce  it  is  all  founded  on  induction  and  ex- 
periment. Now  our  erections  are  not  shaky,  as  they 
formerly  were,  and  only  in  our  path  lies  the  solution 
of  all  the  problems  of  humanity." 

But  the  old  teachers  said  precisely  the  same,  and 
they  were  no  fools  ;  and  we  know  that  there  were  peo- 
ple of  great  intelligence  among  them.  And  precisely 
thus,  within  my  memory,  and  with  no  less  confidence, 


172  WHAT   TO   DO? 

with  no  less  recognition  on  the  part  of  the  crowd  of 
so-called  cultivated  people,  spoke  the  Hegelians.  And 
neither  were  our  Herzens,  our  Stankevitches,  or  our 
Byelinskys  fools.  But  whence  arose  that  marvellous 
manifestation,  that  sensible  people  should  preach  with 
the  greatest  assurance,  and  that  the  crowd  should 
accept  with  devotion,  such  unfounded  and  unsupport- 
able  teachings  ?  There  is  but  one  reason,  —  that  the 
teachings  thus  inculcated  justified  people  in  their  evil 
life. 

A  very  poor  English  writer,  whose  works  are  all 
forgotten,  and  recognized  as  the  most  insignificant  of 
the  insignificant,  writes  a  treatise  on  population,  in 
which  he  devises  a  fictitious  law  concerning  the  increase 
of  population  disproportionate  to  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence. This  fictitious  law,  this  writer  encompasses 
with  mathematical  formulae  founded  on  nothing  what- 
ever ;  and  then  he  launches  it  on  the  world.  From  the 
frivolity  and  the  stupidity  of  this  hypothesis,  one  would 
suppose  that  it  would  not  attract  the  attention  of  any 
one,  and  that  it  would  sink  into  oblivion,  like  all  the 
works  of  the  same  author  which  followed  it ;  but  it 
turned  out  quite  otherwise.  The  hack-writer  who 
penned  this  treatise  instantly  becomes  a  scientific  au- 
thority, and  maintains  himself  upon  that  height  foi- 
nearly  half  a  century.  Malthus !  The  Malthusian 
theory,  —  the  law  of  the  increase  of  the  population  in 
geometrical,  and  of  the  means  of  subsistence  in  arith- 
metical proportion,  and  the  wise  and  natural  means  of 
restricting  the  population,  —  all  these  have  become 
scientific,  indubitable  truths,  which  have  not  been 
confirmed,  but  which  have  been  employed  as  axioms, 
for  the  erection  of  false  theories.  In  this  manner  have 
learned  and  cultivated  people  proceeded ;  and  among 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      173 

the  herd  of  idle  persons,  there  sprung  up  a  pious  trust 
in  the  great  laws  expounded  b}-  Malthus.  How  did 
this  come  to  pass?  It  would  seem  as  though  they  were 
scientific  deductions,  which  had  nothing  in  common 
with  the  instincts  of  the  masses.  But  this  can  only 
appear  so  for  the  man  who  believes  that  science,  like 
the  Church,  is  something  self-contained,  liable  to  no 
errors,  and  not  simply  the  imaginings  of  weak  and 
erring  folk,  who  merely  substitute  the  im[)osing  word 
*^  science,"  in  place  of  the  thoughts  and  words  of  the 
people,  for  the  sake  of  impressiveness. 

All  that  was  necessarj^  was  to  make  practical  deduc- 
tions from  the  theory  of  Malthus,  in  order  to  pe^-ceive 
that  this  theory  was  of  the  most  human  sort,  with  the 
best  defined  of  objects.  The  deductions  directly  aris- 
ing from  this  theory  were  the  following :  The  wretched 
condition  of  the  laboring  classes  was  such  in  accord- 
ance with  an  unalterable  law,  which  does  not  depend 
upon  men  ;  and,  if  any  one  is  to  blame  in  this  matter, 
it  is  the  hungry  laboring  classes  themselves.  Why  are 
they  such  fools  as  to  give  birth  to  children,  when  they 
know  that  there  will  be  nothing  for  the  children  to  eat  ? 
And  so  this  deduction,  which  is  valuable  for  the  herd 
of  idle  people,  has  had  this  result:  that  all  learned 
men  overlooked  the  incorrectness,  the  utter  arbitrari- 
ness of  these  deductions,  and  their  insusceptibility 
to  proof;  and  the  throng  of  cultivated,  i.e.,  of  idle 
people,  knowing  instinctively  to  what  these  deductions 
lead,  saluted  this  theory  with  enthusiasm,  conferred 
upon  it  the  stamp  of  truth,  i.e.,  of  science,  and 
dragged  it  about  with  them  for  half  a  century. 

Is  not  this  same  thing  the  cause  of  the  confidence 
of  men  in  positive  critical-experimental  science,  and 
of   the   devout   attitude   of    the   crowd   towards    that 


174  WHAT  TO  not 

which  it  preaches?  At  first  it  seems  strange,  that  the 
theory  of  evolution  can  in  any  manner  justify  people 
in  their  evil  ways  ;  and  it  seems  as  though  the  scientific 
theory  of  evolution  has  to  deal  only  with  facts,  and 
that  it  does  nothing  else  but  observe  facts. 

But  this  only  appears  to  be  the  case. 

Exactly  the  same  thing  appeared  to  be  the  case  with 
the  Hegelian  doctrine,  in  a  greater  degree,  and  also  in 
the  special  instance  of  the  Malthusian  doctrine.  Hege- 
lianism  was,  apparently',  occupied  only  with  its  logical 
constructions,  and  bore  no  relation  to  the  life  of  man- 
kind. Precisely  this  seemed  to  be  the  case  with  the 
Malthusian  theory.  It  appeared  to  be  busy  itself  only 
with  statistical  data.    But  this  was  only  in  appearance. 

Contemporary  science  is  also  occupied  with  facts 
alone:  it  investigates  facts.  But  what  facts?  Why 
precisely  these  facts,  and  no  others? 

The  men  of  contemporary  science  are  very  fond  of 
saying,  triumphantly  and  confidently,  "We  investigate 
only  facts,"  imagining  that  these  words  contain  some 
meaning.  It  is  impossible  to  investigate  facts  alone, 
because  the  facts  which  are  subject  to  our  investiga- 
tion are  innumerable  (in  the  definite  sense  of  that 
word),  —  innumerable.  Before  we  proceed  to  investi- 
gate facts,  we  must  have  a  theory  on  the  foundation, 
of  which  these  or  those  facts  can  be  inquired  into,  i.e., 
selected  from  the  incalculable  quantity. 

And  this  theory  exists,  and  is  even  very  definitely 
expressed,  although  many  of  the  workers  in  contem- 
porary science  do  not  know  it,  or  often  pretend  that 
they  do  not  know  it.  Exactly  thus  has  it  always  been 
with  all  prevailing  and  guiding  doctrines.  The  founda- 
tions of  every  doctrine  are  always  stated  in  a  theorj", 
and  the  so-called  learned  men  merely  invent  further 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      175 

deductions  from  the  foundations  once  stated.  Thus 
contemporary  science  is  selecting  its  facts  on  the  foun- 
dation of  a  very  definite  theory,  which  it  sometimes 
knows,  sometimes  refuses  to  know,  and  sometimes 
really  does  not  know ;  but  the  theory  exists. 

The  theory  is  as  follows  :  All  mankind  is  an  undying 
organism  ;  men  are  the  particles  of  that  organism,  and 
each  one  of  them  has  his  own  special  task  for  the  ser- 
vice of  others.  In  the  same  manner,  the  cells  united 
in  an  organism  share  among  them  the  labor  of  the  fight 
for  existence  of  the  whole  organism  ;  they  magnify  the 
power  of  one  capacity,  and  weaken  another,  and  unite 
in  one  organ,  in  order  the  better  to  supply  the  require- 
ments of  the  whole  organism.  And  exactly  in  the 
same  manner  as  with  gregarious  animals, — ants  or 
bees,  —  the  separate  individuals  divide  the  labor  among 
them.  The  queen  laj's  the  egg,  the  drone  fructifies  it ; 
the  bee  works  his  whole  life  long.  And  precisely  this 
thing  takes  place  in  mankind  and  in  human  societies. 
And  therefore,  in  order  to  find  the  law  of  life  for  man, 
it  is  necessary  to  study  the  laws  of  the  life  and  the 
development  of  organisms. 

In  the  life  and  development  of  organisms,  we  find 
the  following  laws :  the  law  of  differentiation  and 
integration,  the  law  that  every  phenomenon  is  accom- 
panied not  by  direct  consequences  alone,  another  law 
regarding  the  instability  of  type,  and  so  on.  All  this 
seems  very  innocent ;  but  it  is  only  necessary  to  draw 
the  deductions  from  all  these  laws,  in  order  to  immedi- 
ately perceive  that  these  laws  incline  in  the  same  direc- 
tion as  the  law  of  Malthus.  These  laws  all  point  to 
one  thing ;  namely,  to  the  recognition  of  that  division 
of  labor  which  exists  in  human  communities,  as  organic, 
that  is  to  say,  as  indispensable.     And  therefore,  the 


176  WHAT  TO  DOT 

unjust  position  in  which  we,  the  people  who  have  freed 
ourselves  from  labor,  find  ourselves,  must  be  regarded 
not  from  the  point  of  view  of  common-sense  and  jus- 
tice, but  merely  as  an  undoubted  fact,  confirming  the 
universal  law. 

Moral  philosophy  also  justified  every  sort  of  cruelty 
and  harshness ;  but  this  resulted  in  a  philosophical 
manner,  and  therefore  wrongly.  But  with  science,  all 
this  results  scientifically,  and  therefore  in  a  manner  not 
to  be  doubted. 

How  can  we  fail  to  accept  so  very  beautiful  a  theory  ? 
It  is  merely  necessary  to  look  upon  human  society  as 
an  object  of  contemplation  ;  and  I  can  console  myself 
with  the  thought  that  my  activit}^  whatever  may  be 
its  nature,  is  a  functional  activity  of  the  organism  of 
humanity,  and  that  therefore  there  cannot  arise  any 
question  as  to  whether  it  is  just  that  I,  in  employing 
the  labor  of  others,  am  doing  only  that  which  is  agree- 
able to  me,  as  there  can  arise  no  question  as  to  the 
division  of  labor  between  the  brain  cells  and  the  mus- 
cular cells.  How  is  it  possible  not  to  admit  so  very 
beautiful  a  theory,  in  order  that  one  may  be  able,  ever 
after,  to  pocket  one's  conscience,  and  li.ve  a  perfectly 
unbridled  animal  existence,  feeling  beneath  one's  self 
that  support  of  science  which  is  not  to  be  shaken 
nowadays ! 

And  it  is  on  this  new  doctrine  that  the  justification 
for  men's  idleness  and  cruelty  is  now  founded. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      Ill 


II. 


This  doctrine  had  its  rise  not  so  very  long  —  fifty 
years  —  ago.  Its  principal  founder  was  the  French 
savant  Comte.  There  occurred  to  Comte, — a  sys- 
tematist,  and  a  religious  man  to  boot,  —  under  the 
influence  of  the  then  novel  physiological  investigations 
of  Biche,  the  old  idea  already  set  forth  by  Meneuius 
Agrippa,  —  the  idea  that  human  society,  all  humanity 
even,  might  be  regarded  as  one  whole,  as  an  organism ; 
and  men  as  living  parts  of  the  separate  organs,  having 
each  his  own  definite  appointment  to  serve  the  entire 
organism. 

This  idea  so  pleased  Comte,  that  upon  it  he  began 
to  erect  a  philosophical  theory ;  and  this  theory  so  car- 
ried him  away,  that  he  utterly  forgot  that  the  point  of 
departure  for  his  theory  was  nothing  more  than  a  very 
pretty  comparison,  which  was  suitable  for  a  fable,  but 
which  could  hy  no  means  serve  as  the  foundation  for 
science.  He,  as  frequently  happens,  mistook  his  pet 
hypothesis  for  an  axiom,  and  imagined  that  his  whole 
theory  was  erected  on  the  very  firmest  of  foundations. 
According  to  his  theory,  it  seemed  that  since  humanity 
is  an  organism,  the  knowledge  of  what  man  is,  and  of 
what  should  be  his  relations  to  the  world,  was  possible 
only  through  a  knowledge  of  the  features  of  this  organ- 
ism. For  the  knowledge  of  these  qualities,  man  is 
enabled  to  take  observations  on  other  and  lower  organ- 
isms, and  to  draw  conclusions  from  their  life.     There- 


178  WHAT   TO  DO? 

fore,  in  the  first  place,  the  true  and  onl}^  method, 
according  to  Comte,  is  the  inductive,  and  all  science 
is  only  such  when  it  has  experiment  as  its  basis ;  in 
the  second  place,  the  goal  and  crown  of  sciences  is 
formed  by  that  new  science  dealing  with  the  imaginary 
organism  of  humanity,  or  the  super-organic  being,  — 
humanity,  —  and  this  newly  devised  science  is  sociology. 

And  from  this  view  of  science  it  appears,  that  all 
previous  knowledge  was  deceitful,  and  that  the  whole 
story  of  humanity,  in  the  sense  of  self-knowledge,  has 
been  divided  into  three,  actually  into  two,  periods :  the 
theological  and  metaphysical  period,  extending  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world  to  Comte,  and  the  pres- 
ent period,  —  that  of  the  only  true  science,  positive 
science,  —  beginning  with  Comte. 

All  this  was  very  well.  There  was  but  one  error, 
and  that  was  this,  —  that  the  whole  edifice  was  erected 
on  the  sand,  on  the  arbitrary  and  false  assertion  that 
humanity  is  an  organism.  This  assertion  was  arbi- 
trary, because  we  have  just  as  much  right  to  admit  the 
existence  of  a  human  organism,  not  subject  to  observa- 
tion, as  we  have  to  admit  the  existence  of  any  other 
invisible,  fantastic  being.  This  assertion  was  errone- 
ous, because  for  the  understanding  of  humanity,  i.e., 
of  men,  the  definition  of  an  organism  was  incorrectly, 
constructed,  while  in  humanity  itself  all  actual  signs  of 
organism,  — the  centre  of  feeling  or  consciousness,  are 
lacking.^ 

But,  in  spite  of  the  arbitrariness  and  incorrectness 

1  We  designate  as  organisms  the  elephant  and  the  bacterian,  only  because 
we  assume  by  analogy  in  those  creatures  the  same  conjunction  of  feeling  and 
consciousness  that  we  know  to  exist  in  ourselves.  But  in  human  societies  and 
in  humanity,  this  actual  sign  is  absent;  and  therefore,  however  many  other 
signs  we  may  discover  in  humanity  and  in  organism,  without  this  substantial 
token  the  recognition  of  humanity  as  an  organism  is  incorrect. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      179 

of  the  fundamental  assumption  of  positive  philosophy, 
it  was  accepted  by  the  so-called  cultivated  world  with 
the  greatest  sympathy.  In  this  connection,  one  thing 
is  worthy  of  note ;  that  out  of  the  works  of  Comte, 
consisting  of  two  parts,  of  positive  philosophy  and  of 
positive  politics,  only  the  first  was  adopted  by  the 
learned  world,  —  that  part  which  justified,  on  new 
premises,  the  existent  evil  of  human  societies  ;  but  the 
second  part,  treating  of  the  moral  obligations  of  altru- 
ism, arising  from  the  recognition  of  mankind  as  an 
organism,  was  regarded  as  not  only  of  no  importance, 
but  as  trivial  and  unscientific.  It  was  a  repetition  of  the 
same  thing  that  had  happened  in  the  case  of  Kant's 
works.  The  '^  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  "  was  adopted  by 
the  scientific  crowd.;  but  the  '^  Critique  of  Applied  Rea- 
son,'* that  part  which  contains  the  gist  of  moral  doctrine, 
was  repudiated.  In  Kant's  doctrine,  that  was  accepted 
as  scientific  which  subserved  the  existent  evil.  But  the 
positive  philosophy,  which  was  accepted  by  the  crowd, 
was  founded  on  an  arbitrary  and  erroneous  basis,  was 
in  itself  too  unfounded,  and  therefore  unsteady,  and 
could  not  support  itself  alone.  And  so,  amid  all  the 
multitude  of  the  idle  plays  of  thought  of  the  men 
professing  the  so-called  science,  there  presents  itself  an 
assertion  equally  devoid  of  novelty,  and  equally  arbi- 
trary and  erroneous,  to  the  effect  that  living  beings, 
i.e.,  organisms,  have  had  their  rise  in  each  other, — 
not  only  one  organism  from  another,  but  one  from 
many;  i.e.,  that  in  a  very  long  interval  of  time  (in  a 
million  of  years,  for  instance),  not  only  could  a  duck 
and  a  fish  proceed  from  one  ancestor,  but  that  one  ani- 
mal might  result  from  a  whole  hive  of  bees.  And  this 
arbitrary  and  erroneous  assumption  was  accepted  by 
tfee  learned  world  with  still  greater  and  more  universal 


180  WHAT  TO   DO? 

sympathy.  This  assumption  was  arbitrary,  because 
no  one  has  ever  seen  how  one  organism  is  made  from 
another,  and  therefore  the  hypothesis  as  to  the  origin 
of  species  will  always  remain  an  hypothesis,  and  not 
an  experimental  fact.  And  this  hypothesis  was  also 
erroneous,  because  the  decision  of  the  question  as  to  the 
origin  of  species  —  that  they  have  originated,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  law  of  heredity  and  fitness,  in  the  course 
of  an  interminably  long  time  —  is  no  solution  at  all,  but 
merely  a  re-statement  of  the  problem  in  a  new  form. 

According  to  Moses'  solution  of  the  question  (in  the 
dispute  with  whom  the  entire  significance  of  this  theory 
lies),  it  appears  that  the  diversity  of  the  species  of 
living  creatures  proceeded  according  to  the  will  of  God, 
and  according  to  His  almighty  power ;  but  according 
to  the  theory  of  evolution,  it  appears  that  the  difference 
between  living  creatures  arose  by  chance,  and  on  account 
of  varying  conditions  of  heredity  and  surroundings, 
through  an  endless  period  of  time.  The  theory  of  evo- 
lution, to  speak  in  simple  language,  merely  asserts, 
that  by  chance,  in  an  incalculably  long  period  of  time, 
out  of  any  thmg  you  like,  any  thing  else  that  j'ou  like 
may  develop. 

This  is  no  answer  to  the  problem.  And  the  same 
problem  is  differently  expressed :  instead  of  will,, 
chance  is  offered,  and  the  co-efl3cient  of  the  eternal 
is  transposed  from  the  power  to  the  time.  But  this 
fresh  assertion  strengthened  Comte's  assertion.  And, 
moreover,  according  to  the  ingenuous  confession  of 
the  founder  of  Darwin's  theory  himself,  his  idea  was 
aroused  in  him  by  the  law  of  Malthus ;  and  he  there- 
fore propounded  the  theory  of  the  struggle  of  living 
creatures  and  people  for  existence,  as  the  fundamental 
law  of  every  living  thing.     And   lo !   only  this  was 


/^ 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      181 

needed  by  the  throng  of  idle  people  for  their  justifi- 
cation. 

Two  insecure  theories,  incapable  of  sustaining  them- 
selves on  their  feet,  upheld  each  other,  and  acquired 
the  semblance  of  stability.  Both  theories  bore  within 
them  that  idea  which  is  precious  to  the  crowd,  that 
in  the  existent  evil  of  human  societies,  men  are  not 
to  blame,  and  that  the  existing  order  of  things  is  that 
which  should  prevail ;  and  the  new  theory  was  adopted 
by  the  throng  with  entire  faith  and  unheard-of  enthu- 
siasm. And  behold,  on  the  strength  of  these  two 
arbitrary  and  erroneous  hypotheses,  accepted  as  dog- 
mas of  belief,  the  new  scientific  doctrine  was  ratified. 

Spencer,  for  example,  in  one  of  his  first  works, 
expresses  this  doctrine  thus  :  — 

''Societies  and  organisms,"  he  says,  "are  alike  in 
the  following  poiuts  :  — 

"  1.  In  that,  beginning  as  tiny  aggregates,  they  im- 
perceptibly grow  in  mass,  so  that  some  of  them  attain 
to  the  size  of  ten  thousand  times  their  original  bulk. 

''2.  In  that  while  the}'  were,  in  the  beginning,  of 
such  simple  structure,  that  they  can  be  regarded  as 
destitute  of  all  structure,  they  acquire  during  the 
period  of  their  gi-owth  a  constantly  increasing  com- 
plication of  structure. 

''  3.  In  that  although  in  their  earl}^  undeveloped 
period,  there  exists  between  them  hardly  any  inter- 
dependence of  parts,  their  parts  gradually  acquire  an 
interdependence,  which  eventually  becomes  so  strong, 
that  the  life  and  activit}-  of  each  part  becomes  possible 
only  on  condition  of  the  life  and  activity  of  the  remain- 
ing parts. 

"'4.  In  that  life  and  the  development  of  society  are 
independent,  and  more  protracted  than  the   life   and 


182  WHAT  TO  DO? 

development  of  any  one  of  the  units  constituting  it, 
which  are  born,  grow,  act,  reproduce  themselves,  and 
die  separately ;  while  the  political  }3ody  formed  from 
them,  continues  to  live  generation  after  generation, 
developing  in  mass  in  perfection  and  functional  ac- 
tivity." 

The  points  of  difference  between  organisms  and 
society  go  farther ;  and  it  is  proved  that  these  differ- 
ences are  merely  apparent,  but  that  organisms  and 
societies  are  absolutely  similar. 

For  the  uninitiated  man  the  question  immediately 
presents  itself  :  "  What  are  you  talking  about?  Why 
is  mankind  an  organism,  or  similar  to  an  organism?  '* 

You  say  that  societies  resemble  organisms  in  these 
four  features  ;  but  it  is  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  only 
take  a  few  features  of  the  organism,  and  beneath  them 
^^ou  range  human  communities.  You  bring  forward 
four  features  of  resemblance,  then  you  take  four  fea- 
tures of  dissimilarity,  which  are,  however,  only  appar- 
ent (according  to  you)  ;  and  you  thence  conclude  that 
human  societies  can  be  regarded  as  organisms.  But 
surelj',  this  is  an  empty  game  of  dialectics,  and  nothing 
more.  On  tlie  same  foundation,  under  the  features  of 
an  organism,  you  may  range  whatever  you  please.  I 
will  take  the  first  thing  that  comes  into  my  head.' 
Let  us  suppose  it  to  be  a  forest, — the  manner  in 
which  it  sows  itself  in  the  plain,  and  spreads  abroad. 
1.  Beginning  with  a  small  aggregate,  it  increases  im- 
perceptibl}'  in  mass,  and  so  forth.  Exactly  the  same 
thing  takes  place  in  the  fields,  when  they  gradually 
seed  themselves  down,  and  bring  forth  a  forest.  2.  In 
the  beginning  the  structure  is  simple  :  afterwards  it 
increases  m  complication,  and  so  forth.  Exactly  the 
same  thing  happens  with  the  forest,  —  in  the  first  place,  ^ 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      183 

there  were  only  birch-trees,  then  came  brush-wood 
and  hazel-bushes  ;  at  first  all  grow  erect,  then  they 
interlace  their  branches.  3.  The  interdependence  of 
the  parts  is  so  augmented,  that  the  life  of  each  part 
depends  on  the  life  and  activity  of  the  remaining 
parts.  It  is  precisely  so  with  the  forest,  —  the  hazel- 
bush  warms  the  tree-boles  (cut  it  down,  and  the  other 
trees  will  freeze),  the  hazel-bush  protects  from  the 
wind*,  the  seed-bearing  trees  carry  on  reproduction, 
the  tall  and  leafy  trees  afford  shade,  and  the  life  of 
one  tree  depends  on  the  life  of  another.  4.  The  sep- 
rate  parts  may  die,  but  the  whole  lives.  Exactly  the 
case  with  the  forest.  The  forest  does  not  mourn  one 
tree. 

Having  proved  that,  in  accordance  with  this  theory, 
you  may  regard  the  forest  as  an  organism,  you  fancy 
that  you  have  proved  to  the  disciples  of  the  organic 
doctrine  the  error  of  their  definition.  Nothing  of  the 
sort.  The  definition  which  they  give  to  the  organism 
is  so  inaccurate  and  so  elastic  that  under  this  defini- 
tion they  may  include  what  they  will.  '*  Yes,"  they 
say;  *' and  the  forest  may  also  be  regarded  as  an 
organism.  The  forest  is  mutual  re-action  of  individ- 
uals, which  do  not  annihilate  each  other,  —  an  aggre- 
gate ;  its  parts  may  also  enter  into  a  more  intimate 
union,  as  the  hive  of  bees  constitutes  itself  an  organ- 
ism.'* Then  you  will  say,  *'If  that  is  so,  then  the 
birds  and  the  insects  and  the  grass  of  this  forest,  which 
re-act  upon  each  other,  and  do  not  destroy  each  other, 
may  also  be  regarded  as  one  organism,  in  company 
with  the  trees."  And  to  this  also  they  will  agree. 
Every  collection  of  living  individuals,  which  re-act 
upon  each  other,  and  do  not  destroy  each  other,  may 
be  regarded  as  organisms,  accorduig  to  their  theory. 


184  WHAT  TO  DO? 

You  may  affirm  a  connection  and  interaction  between 
whatever  you  choose,  and,  according  to  evolution,  you 
may  affirm,  that,  out  of  whatever  you  please,  any  other 
thing  that  you  please  ma}^  proceed,  in  a  very  long  period 
of  time. 

And  the  most  remarkable  thing  of  all  is,  that  this 
same  identical  positive  science  recognizes  the  scientific 
method  as  the  sign  of  true  knowledge,  and  has  itself 
defined  what  it  designates  as  the  scientific  method. 

By  the  scientific  method  it  means  common-sense. 

And  common-sense  convicts  it  at  every  step.  As 
soon  as  the  Popes  felt  that  nothing  holy  remained  in 
them,  the}^  called  themselves  most  holy. 

As  soon  as  science  felt  that  no  common-sense  was 
left  in  her  she  called  herself  sensible,  that  is  to  say, 
scientific  science. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      185 


III. 

Division  of  labor  is  the  law  of  all  existing  things, 
and,  therefore,  it  should  be  present  in  human  societies. 
It  is  very  possible  that  this  is  so  ;  but  still  the  question 
remains,  Of  what  nature  is  that  division  of  labor 
which  I  behold  in  my  human  society  ?  is  it  that  division 
of  labor  which  should  exist?  And  if  people  regard  a 
certain  division  of  labor  as  unreasonable  and  unjust, 
then  no  science  whatever  can  convince  men  that  that 
should  exist  which  they  regard  as  unreasonable  and 
unjust. 

Division  of  labor  is  the  condition  of  existence  of 
organisms,  and  of  human  societies  ;  but  what,  in  these 
human  societies,  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  organic  divis- 
ion of  labor?  And,  to  whatever  extent  science  may 
liave  investigated  the  division  of  labor  in  the  cells 
of  worms,  all  these  observations  do  not  compel  a  man 
to  acknowledge  that  division  of  labor  to  be  correct 
which  his  own  sense  and  conscience  do  not  recognize 
as  correct.  No  matter  how  convincing  may  be  the 
proofs  of  the  division  of  labor  of  the  cells  in  the  or- 
ganisms studied,  man,  if  he  has  not  parted  with  his 
judgment,  will  say,  nevertheless,  that  a  man  should 
not  weave  calico  all  his  life,  and  that  this  is  not  divis- 
ion of  labor,  but  persecution  of  the  people.  Spencer 
and  others  say  that  there  is  a  whole  community  of 
weavers,  and  that  the  profession  of  weaving  is  an 
organic  division  of  labor.     There  are  weavers  ;  so,  of 


186  WHAT  TO  DOf 

course,  there  is  such  a  division  of  labor.  It  would  be 
well  enough  to  speak  thus  if  the  colony  of  weavers  had 
arisen  by  the  free  will  of  its  members ;  but  we  know 
that  it  is  not  thus  formed  of  their  initiative,  but  that 
we  make  it.  Hence  it  is  necessary  to  find  out  whether 
we  have  made  these  weavers  in  accordance  with  an 
organic  law,  or  with  some  other. 

Men  live.  They  support  themselves  by  agriculture, 
as  is  natural  to  all  men.  One  man  has  set  up  a  black- 
smith's forge,  and  repaired  his  plough ;  his  neighbor 
comes  to  him,  and  asks  him  to  mend  his  also,  and 
promises  him  in  return  either  work  or  money.  A  third 
comes,  and  a  fourth ;  and  in  the  community  formed  by 
these  niQU,  there  arises  the  following  division  of  labor, 
—  a  blacksmith  is  created.  Another  man  has  instructed 
his  children  well ;  his  neighbor  brings  his  children  to 
him,  and  requests  him  to  teach  them  also,  and  a 
teacher  is  created.  But  both  blacksmith  and  teacher 
have  been  created,  and  continue  to  be  such,  merely 
because  they  have  been  asked  ;  and  they  remain  such 
as  long  as  they  are  requested  to  be  blacksmith  aud 
teacher.  If  it  should  come  to  pass  that  many  black- 
smiths and  teachers  should  set  themselves  up,  or  that 
their  work  is  not  requu-ed,  the}^  will  immediately,  as 
common-sense  demands  and  as  always  happens  when 
there  is  no  occasion  for  disturbing  the  regular  course  of 
division  of  labor,  —  they  will  immediately  abandon  thtnr 
trade,  and  betake  themselves  once  more  to  agriculture. 

Men  who  behave  thus  are  guided  by  their  sense, 
their  conscience  ;  and  hence  we,  the  men  endowed  with 
sense  and  conscience,  all  assert  that  such  a  division  of 
labor  is  right.  But  if  it  should  chance  that  the  black- 
smiths were  able  to  compel  other  people  to  work  for 
them,  aud  should  continue  to  make  horse-shoes  when 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      187 

they  were  not  wanted,  and  if  the  teachers  should  go 
on  teaching  when  there  was  no  one  to  teach,  then  it  is 
obvious  to  every  sane  man,  as  a  man,  i.e.,  as  a  being 
endowed  with  reason  and  conscience,  that  this  would 
not  be  division,  but  appropriation,  of  labor.  And  yet 
precisely  that  sort  of  activity  is  what  is  called  division 
of  labor  by  scientific  science.  People  do  that  which 
others  do  not  think  of  requiring,  and  demand  that 
they  shall  be  supported  for  so  doing,  and  say  that  this 
is  just  because  it  is  division  of  labor. 

That  which  constitutes  the  cause  of  the  economical 
poverty  of  our  age  is  what  the  English  call  over- 
production (which  means  that  a  mass  of  things  are 
made  which  are  of  no  use  to  anybody,  and  with  which 
nothing  can  be  done). 

It  would  be  odd  to  see  a  shoemaker,  who  should 
consider  that  people  were  bound  to  feed  him  because 
he  incessantly  made  boots  which  had  been  of  no  use 
to  any  one  for  a  long  time  ;  but  what  shall  we  sa}^  of 
those  men  who  make  nothing,  —  who  not  only  produce 
nothing  that  is  visible,  but  nothing  that  is  of  use  for 
people  at  large,  —  for  whose  wares  there  are  no  cus- 
tomers, and  who  yet  demand,  with  the  same  boldness, 
on  the  ground  of  division  of  labor,  that  the}'  shall  be 
supplied  with  fine  food  and  drink,  and  that  they  shall 
be  dressed  well?  There  may  be,  and  there  are,  sorcer- 
ers for  whose  services  a  demand  makes  itself  felt,  and 
for  this  purpose  there  are  brought  to  them  pancakes 
and  flasks ;  but  it  is  diflficult  to  imagine  the  existence 
of  sorcerers  whose  spells  are  useless  to  every  one,  and 
who  boldly  demand  that  they  shall  be  luxuriously  sup- 
ported because  they  exercise  sorcery.  And  it  is  the 
same  in  our  world.  And  all  this  comes  about  on 
the  basis  of  that  false  conception  of   the  division  of 


188  WffAT  TO  DO? 

labor,  which  is  defioed  not  by  reason  and  conscience, 
but  by  observation,  which  men  of  science  avow  with 
such  unanimity. 

Division  of  labor  has,  in  reality,  always  existed,  and 
still  exists  ;  but  it  is  right  only  when  man  decides  with 
his  reason  and  his  conscience  that  it  should  be  so, 
and  not  when  he  merely  investigates  it.  And  reason 
and  conscience  decide  the  question  for  all  men  very 
simply,  unanimousl}',  and  in  a  manner  not  to  be 
doubted.  Thi  y  always  decide  it  thus :  that  division 
of  labor  is  right  only  when  a  special  branch  of  man's 
activity  is  so  needful  to  men,  that  the}',  entreating  him 
to  serve  them,  voluntarily  propose  to  support  him  in 
requital  for  that  which  he  shall  do  for  them.  But, 
when  a  man  can  live  from  infancy  to  the  age  of  thirty 
years  on  the  necks  of  others,  promising  to  do,  when 
he  shall  have  been  taught,  something  extremely  useful, 
for  which  no  one  asks  him  ;  and  when,  from  the  age  of 
thirty  until  his  death,  he  can  live  in  the  same  manner, 
still  merely  on  the  promise  to  do  something,  for  which 
there  has  been  no  request,  this  will  not  be  division  of 
labor  (and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  such  thing 
in  our  society),  but  it  will  be  what  it  already  is, — 
merely  the  appropriation,  by  force,  of  the  toil  of  others  ; 
that  same  appropriation  by  force  of  the  toil  of  others, 
which  the  philosophers  formerly  designated  by  various 
names,  —  for  instance,  as  indispensable  forms  of  life, 
—  but  which  scientific  science  now  calls  the  organic 
division  of  labor. 

The  whole  significance  of  scientific  science  lies  in 
this  alone.  It  has  now  become  a  distributer  of  diplo- 
mas for  idleness ;  for  it  alone,  in  its  sanctuaries, 
selects  and  determines  what  is  parasitical,  and  what 
is  organic  activity,   in  the   social  organism.     Just  as 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      189 

though  every  man  could  not  find  this  out  for  him- 
self much  more  accurately  and  more  speedily,  by  tak- 
ing counsel  of  his  reason  and  his  conscience.  It  seems 
to  men  of  scientific  science,  that  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  this,  and  that  their  activity  is  also  indubitably 
organic ;  they,  the  scientific  and  artistic  workers,  are 
the  brain  cells,  and  the  most  precious  cells  in  the 
whole  organism. 

Ever  since  men —  reasoning  beings  —  have  existed, 
they  have  distinguished  good  from  evil,  and  have 
profited  by  the  fact  that  men  have  made  this  distinc- 
tion before  them  ;  they  have  warred  against  evil,  and 
have  sought  the  good,  and  have  slowly  but  uninterrupt- 
edly advanced  in  that  path.  And  divers  delusions  have 
always  stood  before  men,  hemming  in  this  path,  and 
having  for  their  object  to  demonstrate  to  them,  that  it 
was  not  necessary  to  do  this,  and  that  it  was  not  neces- 
sary to  live  as  they  were  living.  With  fearful  conflict 
and  diflficulty,  men  have  freed  themselves  from  many 
delusions..  And  behold,  a  new  and  a  still  more  evil 
delusion  has  sprung  up  in  the  path  of  mankind,  —  the 
scientific  delusion. 

This  new  delusion  is  precisely  the  same  in  nature  as 
the  old  ones  ;  its  gist  lies  in  secretlj^  leading  astray  the 
activity  of  our  reason  and  conscience,  and  of  those  who 
have  lived  before  us,  by  something  external.  In  scien- 
tific science,  this  external  thing  is  —  investigation. 

The  cunning  of  this  science  consists  in  this,  —  that, 
after  pointing  out  to  men  the  coarsest  false  interpreta- 
tions of  the  activity  of  the  reason  and  conscience  of 
man,  it  destroys  in  them  faith  in  their  own  reason  and 
conscience,  and  assures  them  that  every  thing  which 
their  reason  and  conscience  say  to  them,  that  all  that 
these  have  said  to  the  loftiest  representatives  of  man 


190  WHAT  TO  DOf 

heretofore,  ever  since  the  world  has  existed, — that 
all  this  is  conventional  and  subjective.  "All  this 
must  be  abandoned,"  they  say;  "it  is  impossible 
to  understand  the  truth  by  the  reason,  for  we  may  be 
mistaken.  But  there  exists  another  unerring  and  al- 
most mechanical  path :  it  is  necessary  to  investigate 
facts." 

But  facts  must  be  investigated  on  the  foundation  of 
scientific  science,  i.e.,  of  the  two  hypotheses  of  posi- 
tivism and  evolution,  which  are  not  borne  out  by  any 
thing,  and  which  give  themselves  out  as  undoubted 
trutlis.  And  the  reigning  science  announces,  with 
delusive  solemnity,  that  the  solution  of  all  problems 
of  life  is  possible  only  through  the  study  of  facts,  of 
nature,  and,  in  particular,  of  organisms.  The  credu- 
lous mass  of  young  people,  overwhelmed  by  the  novelty 
of  this  authority,  which  has  not  yet  been  overthrown 
or  even  touched  by  criticism,  flings  itself  into  the  study 
of  natural  sciences,  into  that  sole  path,  which,  according 
to  the  assertion  of  the  reigning  science,  can  lead  to  the 
elucidation  of  the  problems  of  life. 

But  the  farther  the  disciples  proceed  in  this  study, 
the  farther  and  farther  does  not  only  the  possibilit}', 
but  even  the  very  idea,  of  the  solution  of  the  problems 
of  life  withdraw  from  them,  and  the  more  and  more* 
do  they  become  accustomed,  not  so  much  to  investi- 
gate, as  to  believe  in  the  assertions  of  other  investiga- 
tors (to  believe  in  cells,  in  protoplasm,  in  the  fourth 
condition  of  bodies,  and  so  forth)  ;  the  more  and 
more  does  the  form  veil  the  contents  from  them  ;  the 
more  and  more  do  they  lose  the  consciousness  of  good 
and  evil,  and  the  capacity'  of  understanding  those  ex- 
pressions and  definitions  of  good  and  evil  which  have 
been  elaborated  through  the  whole  foregoing   life   of 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      191 

mankind  ;  and  the  more  and  'more  do  they  appropriate 
to  themselves  the  special  scientific  jargon  of  conven- 
tional expressions,  which  possesses  no  nniversally  hu- 
man significance ;  and  the  deeper  and  deeper  do  they 
plunge  into  the  debris  of  utterly  unilluminated  investi- 
gations ;  the  more  and  more  do  they  lose  the  power, 
not  only  of  independent  thought,  but  even  of  under- 
standing the  fresh  human  thought  of  others,  which  lies 
beyond  the  bounds  of  their  Talmud.  But  the  principal 
thing  is,  that  they  pass  their  best  years  in  getting  dis- 
used to  life ;  they  grow  accustomed  to  consider  their 
position  as  justifiable ;  and  they  convert  themselves 
physicall}'  into  utterly  useless  parasites,  and  mentally 
they  dislocate  their  brains  and  become  mental  eunuchs. 
And  in  precisely  the  same  manner,  according  to  the 
measure  of  their  folly,  do  they  acquire  self-conceit, 
which  deprives  them  forever  of  all  possibility  of  return 
to  a  simple  life  of  toil,  to  a  simple,  clear,  and  univer- 
sally human  train  of  reasoning. 

Division  of  labor  always  has  existed  in  human  com- 
munities, and  will  probably  always  exist ;  but  the 
question  for  us  lies  not  in  the  fact  that  it  has  existed, 
and  that  it  will  exist,  but  in  this, — how  are  we  to 
govern  ourselves  so  that  this  division  shall  be  right? 
But  if  we  take  investigation  as  our  rule  of  action,  we 
by  this  very  act  repudiate  all  rule ;  then  in  that  case 
we  shall  regard  Us  right  ever}^  division  of  labor  which 
we  shall  descry  among  men,  and  which  appears  to  us 
to  be  right  —  to  which  conclusion  the  prevailing  scien- 
tific science  also  leads. 

Division  of  labor ! 

Some  are  busied  in  mental  or  moral,  others  in  mus- 
cular or  physical,  labor.  With  what  confidence  people 
enunciate  this !     They  wish  to  think  so,  and  it  seems 


192  WHAT  TO  DO? 

to  them  that,  in  point  of  fact,  a  perfectly  regular 
exchange  of  services  does  take  place. 

But  we,  in  our  blindness,  have  so  completely  lost 
sight  of  the  responsibility  which  we  have  assumed, 
that  we  have  even  forgotten  in  whose  name  our  labor 
is  prosecuted  ;  and  the  very  people  whom  we  have 
undertaken  to  serve  have  become  the  objects  of  our 
scientific  and  artistic  activity.  We  study  and  depict 
them  for  our  amusement  and  diversion.  We  have 
totally  forgotten  that  what  we  need  to  do  is  not  to  study 
and  depict  them,  but  to  serve  them.  To  such  a  degree 
have  we  lost  sight  of  this  duty  which  we  have  taken 
upon  us,  that  we  have  not  even  noticed  that  what  we 
have  undertaken  to  perform  in  the  realm  of  science 
and  art  has  been  accomplished  not  by  us,  but  by 
others,  and  that  our  place  has  turned  out  to  be 
occupied. 

It  proves  that  while  we  have  been  disputing,  one 
about  the  spontaneous  origin  of  organisms,  another 
as  to  what  else  there  is  in  protoplasm,  and  so  on,  the 
common  people  have  been  in  need  of  spiritual  food ; 
and  the  unsuccessful  and  rejected  of  art  and  science, 
in  obedience  to  the  mandate  of  adventurers  who  have 
in  view  the  sole  aim  of  profit,  have  begun  to  furnish 
the  people  with  this  spiritual  food,  and  still  so  furnish 
themi.  For  the  last  forty  years  in  Europe,  and  for 
the  last  ten  years  with  us  here  in  Russia,  millions  of 
books  and  pictures  and  song-books  have  been  dis- 
tributed, and  stalls  have  been  opened,  and  the  people 
gaze  and  sing  and  receive  spiritual  nourishment,  but 
not  from  us  who  have  undertaken  to  provide  it ;  while 
we,  justifying  our  idleness  by  that  spiritual  food  which 
we  are  supposed  to  furnish,  sit  by  and  wink  at  it. 

But  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  wink  at  it,  for  our 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      193 

last  justification  is  slipping  from  beneath  our  feet. 
We  have  become  specialized.  We  have  our  particular 
functional  activity.  We  are  the  brains  of  the  people. 
They  support  us,  and  we  have  undertaken  to  teach 
them.  It  is  only  under  this  pretence  that  we  have 
excused  ourselves  from  work.  But  what  have  we 
taught  them,  and  what  are  we  now  teaching  them? 
They  have  waited  for  years  —  for  tens,  for  hundreds 
of  years.  And  we  keep  on  diverting  our  minds  with 
chatter,  and  we  instruct  each  other,  and  we  console 
ourselves,  and  we  have  utterly  forgotten  them.  We 
have  so  entirely  forgotten  them,  that  others  have 
undertaken  to  instruct  them,  and  we  have  not  even 
perceived  it.  We  have  spoken  of  the  division  of  labor 
with  such  lack  of  seriousness,  that  it  is  obvious  that 
what  we  have  said  about  the  benefits  which  we  have 
conferred  on  the  people  was  simply  a  shameless 
evasion. 


194  WHAT  TO  not 


IV. 


Science  and  art  have  arrogated  to  themselves  the 
right  of  idleness,  and  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  labor 
of  others,  and  have  betrayed  their  calling.  And  their 
errors  have  arisen  merely  because  their  servants,  having 
set  forth  a  falsely  conceived  principle  of  the  division 
of  labor,  have  recognized  their  own  right  to  make 
use  of  the  labor  of  others,  and  have  lost  the  significance 
of  their  vocation  ;  having  taken  for  their  aim,  not  the 
profit  of  the  people,  but  the  mysterious  profit  of  science 
and  art,  and  delivered  themselves  over  to  idleness  and 
vice  —  not  so  much  of  the  senses  as  of  the  mind. 

They  say,  "  Science  and  art  have  bestowed  a  great 
deal  on  mankind." 

Science  and  art  have  bestowed  a  great  deal  on  man- 
kind, not  because  the  men  of  art  and  science,  under 
the  pretext  of  a  division  of  labor,  live  on  other  people, 
but  in  spite  of  this. 

The  Roman  Republic  was  powerful,  not  because  her 
citizens  had  the  power  to  live  a  vicious  life,  but 
because  among  their  number  there  were  heroic  citi- 
zens. It  is  the  same  with  art  and  science.  Art  and 
science  have  bestowed  much  on  mankind,  but  not 
because  their  followers  formerly  possessed  on  rare 
occasions  (and  now  possess  on  every  occasion)  the 
possibility  of  getting  rid  of  labor ;  but  because  there 
have  been  men  of  genius,  who,  without  making  use 
of  these  rights,  have  led  mankind  forward. 


ON  SIGNIFICANC/-:   OF  SCIENCE  AMD  ART.      195 

The  class  of  learned  men  and  artists,  which  has 
advanced,  on  the  tietitious  basis  of  a  division  of  labor, 
its  demands  to  the  right  of  using  the  labors  of  others, 
cannot  co-operate  in  the  success  of  true  science  and 
true  art,  because  a  lie  cannot  bring  forth  the  truth. 

We  have  become  so  accustomed  to  these,  our  ten- 
derly reared  or  weakened  representatives  of  mental 
labor,  that  it  seems  to  us  horrible  that  a  man  of 
science  or  an  artist  should  plough  or  cart  manure.  It 
seems  to  us  that  every  thing  would  go  to  destruction, 
and  that  all  his  wisdom  would  be  rattled  out  of  him 
in  the  cart,  and  that  all  those  grand  picturesque  images 
which  he  bears  about  in  his  breast  would  be  soiled  in 
the  manure  ;  but  we  have  become  so  inured  to  this, 
that  it  does  not  strike  us  as  strange  that  our  servitor 
of  science  —  that  is  to  say,  the  servant  and  teacher 
of  the  truth  —  by  making  other  people  do  for  him  that 
which  he  might  do  for  himself,  passes  half  his  time 
in  dainty  eating,  in  smoking,  in  talking,  in  free  and 
easy  gossip,  in  reading  the  newspapers  and  romances, 
and  in  visiting  the  theatres.  It  is  not  strange  to  us 
to  see  our  philosopher  in  the  tavern,  in  the  theatre,  and 
at  the  ball.  It  is  not  strange  in  our  eyes  to  learn  that 
those  artists  who  sweeten  and  ennoble  our  souls  have 
passed  their  lives  in  drunkenness,  cards,  and  women, 
if  not  in  something  worse. 

Art  and  science  are  very  beautiful  things ;  but  just 
because  they  are  so  beautiful  they  should  not  be 
spoiled  by  the  compulsory  combination  with  them  of 
vice :  that  is  to  say,  a  man  should  not  get  rid  of  his 
obligation  to  serve  his  own  life  and  that  of  other 
people  by  his  own  labor.  Art  and  science  have 
caused  mankind  to  progress.  Yes ;  but  not  because 
men  of  art  and  science,  under  the  guise  of   division 


196  WHAT   TO   DO? 

of  labor,  have  rid  themselves  of  the  very  first  and 
most  indisputable  of  human  obligations,  —  to  labor 
with  their  hands  in  the  universal  struggle  of  mankind 
with  nature. 

"  But  only  the  division  of  labor,  the  freedom  of  men 
of  science  and  of  art  from  the  necessity  of  earning 
their  living,  has  rendered  possible  that  remarkable 
success  of  science  which  we  behold  in  our  day,"  is 
the  answer  to  this.  '*  If  all  were  forced  to  till  the 
soil,  those  vast  results  would  not  have  been  attained 
which  have  been  attained  in  our  day ;  there  would 
have  been  none  of  those  striking  successes  which  have 
so  greatly  augmented  man's  power  over  nature,  were 
it  not  for  these  astronomical  discoveries  which  are  so 
astounding  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  which  have  added 
to  the  security  of  navigation ;  there  would  be  no 
steamers,  no  railways,  none  of  those  ivonderful  bridges, 
tunnels,  steam-engines  and  telegraphs,  photography, 
telephones,  sewing-machines,  phonographs,  electricity, 
telescopes,  spectroscopes,  microscopes,  chloroform. 
Lister's  bandages,  and  carbolic  acid." 

1  will  not  enumerate  every  thing  on  which  our  age 
thus  prides  itself.  This  enumeration  and  pride  of 
enthusiasm  over  ourselves  and  our  exploits  can  be 
found  in  almost  any  newspaper  and  popular  pamphlet. 
This  enthusiasm  over  ourselves  is  often  repeated  to 
such  a  degree  that  none  of  us  can  sufficiently  rejoice 
over  ourselves,  that  we  are  seriously  convinced  that  art 
and  science  have  never  made  such  progress  as  in  our 
own  time.  And,  as  we  are  indebted  for  all  this  mar- 
vellous progress  to  the  division  of  labor,  why  not 
acknowledge  it? 

Let  us  admit  that  the  progress  made  in  our  da}'  is 
noteworth}',  marvellous,  unusual ;  let  us  admit  that  we 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      197 

are  fortunate  mortals  to  live  in  such  a  remarkable 
epoch  :  but  let  us  endeavor  to  appraise  this  progress, 
not  on  the  basis  of  our  self-satisfaction,  but  of  that 
principle  which  defends  itself  with  this  progress,  — • 
the  division  of  labor.  All  this  progress  is  ver}'  amaz- 
ing ;  but  by  a  peculiarl}'  unlucky  chance,  admitted 
even  by  the  men  of  science,  this  progress  has  not  so  far 
improved,  but  it  has  rather  rendered  worse,  the  position 
of  the  majority,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  workuigman. 

If  the  vvorkingman  can  travel  on  the  railway,  instead 
of  walking,  still  that  same  railway  has  burned  down 
his  forest,  has  carried  off  his  grain  under  his  ver^'  nose, 
and  has  brought  his  condition  very  near  to  slavery  — 
to  the  capitalist.  If,  thanks  to  steam-engines  and 
machines,  the  workingman  can  purchase  inferior  calico 
at  a  cheap  rate,  on  the  other  hand  these  engines  and 
machines  have  deprived  him  of  work  at  home,  and 
have  brought  him  into  a  state  of  abject  slavery  to  the 
manufacturer.  If  there  are  telephones  and  telescopes, 
poems,  romances,  theatres,  ballets,  symphonies,  operas, 
picture-galleries,  and  so  forth,  on  the  other  hand  the 
life  of  the  workingman  has  not  been  bettered  by  all 
this  ;  for  all  of  them,  by  the  same  unlucky  chance,  are 
inaccessible  to  him. 

So  that,  on  the  whole  (and  even  men  of  science 
admit  this),  up  to  the  present  time,  all  these  remark- 
able discoveries  and  products  of  science  and  art  have 
certainly  not  ameliorated  the  condition  of  the  working- 
man,  if,  indeed,  they  have  not  made  it  worse.  So  that, 
if  we  set  against  the  question  as  to  the  realit}^  of  the 
progress  attained  by  the  arts  and  sciences,  not  our  own 
rapture,  but  that  standard  upon  the  basis  of  which  the 
division  of  labor  is  defended,  — the  good  of  the  laboring 
man,  —  we  shall  sec  that  we  have  no  lirm  Ibundations 


198  WHAT  TO  no? 

for  that  self-satisfaction  in  which  we  are  so  fond  of 
indulging. 

The  peasant  travels  on  the  railwa}^  the  woman  buys 
calico,  in  the  isbd  (cottage)  there  will  be  a  lamp  instead 
of  a  pine-knot,  and  the  peasant  will  light  his  pipe  with 
a  match, — this  is  convenient;  but  what  right  have  I 
to  say  that  the  railway  and  the  factory  have  proved 
advantageous  to  the  people? 

If  the  peasant  rides  on  the  railway,  and  buys  calico, 
a  lamp,  and  matches,  it  is  only  because  it  is  impossible 
to  forbid  the  peasant's  buying  tliem ;  but  surely  we 
are  all  aware  that  the  construction  of  raiKvays  and 
factories  has  never  been  carried  out  for  the  benefit  of 
the  lower  classes :  so  why  should  a  casual  convenience 
which  the  workingman  enjoys  lead  to  a  proof  of  the 
utility  of  all  these  institutions  for  the  people? 

There  is  something  useful  in  every  injurious  thing. 
After  a  conflagration,  one  can  warm  one's  self,  and 
light  one's  pipe  with  a  firebrand  ;  but  why  declare  that 
the  conflagration  is  beneficial? 

Men  of  art  and  science  might  say  that  their  pursuits 
are  beneficial  to  the  people,  only  when  men  of  art  and 
science  have  assigned  to  themselves  the  object  of  serv- 
ing the  people,  as  they  now  assign  themselves  the 
object  of  serving  the  authorities  and  the  capitalists.. 
We  might  say  this  if  men  of  art  and  science  had 
taken  as  their  aim  the  needs  of  the  people ;  but  there 
are  none  such.  All  scientists  are  busy  with  their 
priestly  avocations,  out  of  which  proceed  investiga- 
tions into  protoplasm,  the  spectral  analyses  of  stars, 
and  so  on.  But  science  has  never  once  thought  of 
what  axe  or  what  hatchet  is  the  most  profitable  to  chop 
with,  what  saw  is  the  most  handy,  what  is  the  best 
way  to  mix  bread,  from  what  flour,  how  to  set  it,  how 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      199 

to  build  and  heat  an  oven,  what  food  and  diink,  and 
what  utensils,  are  the  most  convenient  and  advanta- 
geous under  certain  conditions,  what  mushrooms  may 
be  eaten,  how  to  propagate  them,  and  how  to  prepare 
them  in  the  most  suitable  manner.  And  yet  all  this 
is  the  province  of  science. 

1  am  aware,  that,  according  to  its  own  definition, 
science  ought  to  be  useless,  i.e.,  science  for  the  sake 
of  science  ;  but  surely  this  is  an  obvious  evasion.  The 
province  of  science  is  to  serv^e  the  people.  We  have 
invented  telegraphs,  telephones,  phonographs ;  but 
what  advances  have  we  effected  in  the  life,  in  the  labor, 
of  the  people?  We  have  reckoned  up  two  millions  of 
beetles !  And  we  have  not  tamed  a  single  animal  since 
biblical  times,  when  all  our  animals  were  ah-eady 
domesticated  ;  but  the  reindeer,  the  stag,  the  partridge, 
the  heath-cock,  all  remain  wild. 

Our  botanists  have  discovered  the  cell,  and  in  the 
cell  protoplasm,  and  in  that  protoplasm  still  something 
more,  and  in  that  atom  yet  another  thing.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  these  occupations  will  not  end  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  because  it  is  obvious  that  there  can  be 
no  end  to  them,  and  therefore  the  scientist  has  no  time 
to  devote  to  those  things  which  are  necessary  to  the 
people.  And  therefore,  again,  from  the  time  of  Egyp- 
tian and  Hebrew  antiquity,  when  wheat  and  lentils  had 
already  been  cultivated,  down  to  our  own  times,  not  a 
single  plant  has  been  added  to  the  food  of  the  people, 
with  the  exception  of  the  potato,  and  that  was  not 
obtained  b3^  science. 

Torpedoes  have  been  invented,  and  apparatus  for 
taxation,  and  so  forth.  But  the  spinning-wheel,  the 
woman's  weaving-loom,  the  plough,  the  hatchet,  the 
chain,  the   rake,  the  bucket,  the  well-sweep,  are   ex- 


200  WHAT  TO  DO? 

actly  the  same  as  they  were  in  the  days  of  Rurik ; 
and  if  there  has  been  an}^  change,  then  that  change 
has  not  been  effected  by  scientific  people. 

And  it  is  the  same  with  the  arts.  We  have  elevated 
a  lot  of  people  to  the  rank  of  great  writers ;  we  have 
picked  these  writers  to  pieces,  and  have  wiitten  moun- 
tains of  criticism,  and  criticism  on  the  critics,  and  criti- 
cism on  the  critics  of  the  crities.  And  we  have  collected 
picture-galleries,  and  have  studied  different  schools  of 
art  in  detail ;  and  we  have  so  many  symphonies  and 
orchestras  and  operas,  that  it  is  becoming  difficult 
even  for  us  to  listen  to  them.  But  what  have  we  added 
to  the  popular  byli}n  [the  epic  songs],  legends,  tales, 
songs?  What  music,  what  pictures,  have  we  given  to 
the  people? 

On  the  Nikolskaya  books  are  manufactured  for  the 
people,  and  harmonicas  in  Tula ;  and  in  neither  have 
we  taken  any  part.  The  falsity  of  the  whole  direction 
of  our  arts  and  sciences  is  more  striking  and  more 
apparent  in  precisely  those  very  branches,  which,  it 
would  seem,  should,  from  their  very  nature,  be  of 
use  to  the  people,  and  which,  in  consequence  of  their 
false  attitude,  seem  rather  injurious  than  useful.  The 
technologist,  the  physician,  the  teacher,  tl»e  artist, 
the  author,  should,  in  virtue  of  their  very  callings,  it 
would  seem,  serve  the  people.  And,  what  then? 
Under  the  present  regime,  they  can  do  nothing  but 
harm  to  the  peoi)le. 

The  technologist  or  the  mechanic  has  to  work  with 
capital.  Without  capital  he  is  good  for  nothing.  All 
his  acquirements  are  such  that  for  their  display  he 
requires  capital,  and  the  exploitation  of  the  laboring 
man  on  the  largest  scale  ;  and  —  not  to  mention  that 
he  is  trained  to  live,  at  the  lowest,  on  from  fifteen  hun- 


ON  SfGNIFTCANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART      201 

dred  to  two  thousand  a  year,  and  that,  therefore,  he  can- 
not go  to  the  country,  where  no  one  can  give  him  such 
wages,  —  he  is,  by  virtue  of  his  very  occupation,  unfit- 
ted for  serving  the  people.  He  knows  how  to  calculate 
the  highest  mathematical  arch  of  a  bridge,  how  to  calcu- 
late the  force  and  transfer  of  the  motive  power,  and  so 
on  ;  but  he  is  confounded  by  the  simplest  questions  of  a 
peasant :  how  to  improve  a  plough  or  a  cart,  or  how  to 
make  irrigating  canals.  All  this  in  the  conditions  of 
life  in  which  the  laboring  man  finds  himself.  Of  this, 
he  neither  knows  nor  understands  any  thing,  —  less, 
indeed,  than  the  very  stupidest  peasant.  Give  him 
workshops,  all  sorts  of  workmen  at  his  desire,  an  order 
for  a  machine  from  abroad,  and  he  will  get  along. 
But  how  to  devise  means  of  lightening  toil,  under  the 
conditions  of  labor  of  millions  of  men,  — this  is  what 
he  does  not  and  can  not  know ;  and  because  of  his 
knowledge,  his  habits,  and  his  demands  on  life,  he  is 
unfitted  for  this  business. 

In  a  still  worse  predicament  is  the  physician.  His 
fancied  science  is  all  so  arranged,  that  he  only  knows 
how  to  heal  those  persons  who  do  nothing.  He  re- 
quires an  incalculable  quantity  of  expensive  prepara- 
tions, instruments,  drugs,  and  hygienic  apparatus. 

He  has  studied  with  celebrities  in  the  capitals,  who 
only  retain  patients  who  can  be  cured  in  the  hospital, 
or  who,  in  the  course  of  their  cure,  can  purchase  the 
appliances  requisite  for  healing,  and  even  go  at  once 
from  the  Nortli  to  the  South,  to  some  baths  or  other. 
Science  is  of  such  a  nature,  that  every  rural  physi- 
cian laments  because  there  are  no  means  of  curing 
working-men,  because  he  is  so  poor  that  he  has  not 
the  means  to  place  the  sick  man  in  the  proper  hygienic 
conditions ;  and  at  the  same  time  this  physician  com- 


202  WffAT  TO  DO? 

plains  that  there  are  no  hospitals,  and  that  he  cannot 
get  through  with  his  wo"k,  "".hat  he  needs  assistants, 
more  doctors  and  practitioners. 

What  is  the  inference?  This:  that  the  people's 
principal  lack,  from  which  diseases  arise,  and  spread 
abroad,  and  refuse  to  be  healed,  is  the  lack  of  means 
of  subsistence.  And  here  Science,  under  the  banner 
of  the  division  of  labor,  summons  her  warriors  to  the 
aid  of  the  people.  Science  is  entirely  arranged  for 
the  wealth}'  classes,  and  it  has  adopted  for  its  task  the 
healing  of  the  people  who  can  obtain  every  thing  for 
themselves  ;  and  it  attempts  to  heal  those  who  possess 
no  superfluity,  by  the  same  means. 

But  there  are  no  means,  and  therefore  it  is  necessary 
to  take  them  from  the  people  who  are  ailing,  and  pest- 
stricken,  and  who  cannot  recover  for  lack  of  means. 
And  now  the  defenders  of  medicine  for  the  peo[)le  say 
that  this  matter  has  been,  as  yet,  but  little  developed. 
Evidently  it  has  been  but  little  developed,  because  if 
(which  God  forbid!)  it  had  been  developed,  and  that 
through  oppressing  the  people,  —  instead  of  two  doc- 
tors, midwives,  and  practitioners  in  a  district,  twenty 
would  have  settled  down,  since  they  desire  this,  and 
half  the  people  would  have  died  through  the  difficulty 
of  supporting  this  medical  stafT,  and  soon  there  would 
be  no  one  to  heal. 

Scientific  co-operation  with  the  people,  of  which  the 
defenders  of  science  talk,  must  be  something  quite 
different.  And  this  co-operation  which  should  exist 
has  not  yet  begun.  It  will  begin  when  the  man  of 
science,  technologist  or  physician,  will  not  consider  it 
legal  to  take  from  people  —  I  will  not  say  a  hundred 
thousand,  but  even  a  modest  ten  thousand,  or  five  hun- 
dred rubles  for  assisting  them  ;  but  when  he  will  live 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      203 

among  the  toiling  people,  under  the  same  conditions, 
and  exactly  as  they  do,  then  he  will  be  able  to  apply 
his  knowledge  to  the  questions  of  mechanics,  technics, 
hygiene,  and  the  healing  of  the  laboring  people.  But 
now  science,  supporting  itself  at  the  expense  of  the 
working-people,  has  entirely  forgotten  the  conditions 
of  life  among  these  people,  ignores  (as  it  puts  it)  these 
conditions,  and  takes  very  grave  offence  because  its 
fancied  knowledge  finds  no  adherents  among  the  people. 

The  domain  of  medicine,  like  the  domain  of  techni- 
cal science,  still  lies  untouched.  All  questions  as  to 
how  the  time  of  labor  is  best  divided,  what  is  the  best 
method  of  nourishment,  with  what,  in  what  shape,  and 
when  it  is  best  to  clothe  one's  self,  to  shoe  one's  self, 
to  counteract  dampness  and  cold,  how  best  to  wash 
one's  self,  to  feed  the  children,  to  swaddle  them,  and 
so  on,  in  just  those  conditions  in  which  the  working- 
people  find  themselves,  —  all  these  questions  have  uot 
yet  been  propounded. 

The  same  is  the  case  with  the  activity  of  the  teach- 
ers of  science,  —  pedagogical  teachers.  Exactly  in  the 
same  manner  science  has  so  arranged  this  matter,  that 
only  wealthy  people  are  able  to  study  science,  and 
teachers,  like  technologists  and  physicians,  cling  to 
money. 

And  this  cannot  be  otherwise,  because  a  school  built 
on  a  model  plan  (as  a  general  rule,  the  more  scientifi- 
cally built  the  school,  the  more  costly  it  is),  with  pivot 
chairs,  and  globes,  and  maps,  and  library,  and  petty 
text-books  for  teachers  and  scholars  and  pedagogues, 
is  a  sort  of  thing  for  which  it  would  be  necessary  to 
double  the  taxes  in  every  village.  This  science  de- 
mands. The  people  need  money  for  their  work ;  and 
the  more  there  is  needed,  the  poorer  they  are. 


204  WHAT  TO  DOt 

Defenders  of  science  say:  "  Pedagogy  is  even  now 
proving  of  advantage  to  the  people,  but  give  it  a  chance 
to  develop,  and  then  it  will  do  still  better."  Yes,  if 
it  does  develop,  and  instead  of  twenty  schools  in  a 
district  there  are  a  hundred,  and  all  scientific,  and  if 
the  people  support  these  schools,  they  will  grow  poorer 
than  ever,  and  thej^  will  more  than  ever  need  work 
for  their  children's  sake.  "What  is  to  be  done?" 
they  say  to  this.  The  government  will  build  the 
scnools,  and  will  make  education  obligatory,  as  it  is 
in  Europe ;  but  again,  surely,  the  money  is  taken  from 
the  people  just  the  same,  and  it  will  be  harder  to  work, 
and  they  will  have  less  leisure  for  work,  and  there 
will  be  no  education  even  by  compulsion.  Again  the 
sole  salvation  is  this :  that  the  teacher  should  live 
under  the  conditions  of  the  working-men,  and  should 
teach  for  that  compensation  which  they  give  him  freely 
and  voluntarily. 

Such  is  the  false  course  of  science,  which  deprives 
it  of  the  power  of  fulfilling  its  obligation,  which  is,  to 
serve  the  people. 

But  in  nothing  is  this  false  course  of  science  so 
obviously  apparent,  as  in  the  vocation  of  art,  which, 
from  its  very  significance,  ought  to  be  accessible  to 
the  people.  Science  may  fall  back  on  its  stupid  excuse^ 
that  science  acts  for  science,  and  that  when  it  turns 
out  learned  men  it  is  laboring  for  the  people  ;  but  art, 
if  it  is  art,  should  be  accessible  to  all  the  people,  and 
in  particular  to  those  in  whose  name  it  is  executed. 
And  our  definition  of  art,  in  a  striking  manner,  con- 
victs those  who  busy  themselves  with  art,  of  their  lack 
of  desire,  lack  of  knowledge,  and  lack  of  power,  to 
be  useful  to  the  people. 

The  painter,  for  the  production  of  his  great  works, 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      205 

must  have  a  studio  of  at  least  such  dimensions  that  a 
whole  association  of  carpenters  (forty  in  number)  or 
shoemakers,  now  sickening  or  stifling  in  lairs,  would  be 
able  to  work  in  it.  But  this  is  not  all ;  he  must  have 
a  model,  costumes,  travels.  Millions  are  expended  on 
the  encouragement  of  art,  and  the  products  of  this  art 
are  both  incomprehensible  and  useless  to  the  people. 
Musicians,  in  order  to  express  their  grand  ideas,  must 
assemble  two  hundred  men  in  white  neckties,  or  in 
costumes,  and  spend  hundreds  of  thousands  of  rubles 
for  the  equipment  of  an  opera.  And  the  products  of 
this  art  cannot  evoke  from  the  people  —  even  if  the 
latter  could  at  any  time  enjoy  it  —  any  thing  except 
amazement  and  ennui. 

Writers  —  authors  —  it  appears,  do  not  require  sur- 
roundings, studios,  models,  orchestras,  and  actors ; 
but  it  then  appears  that  the  author  needs  (not  to  men- 
tion comfort  in  his  quarters)  all  the  dainties  of  life  for 
the  preparation  of  his  great  works,  travels,  palaces, 
cabinets,  libraries,  the  pleasures  of  art,  visits  to  thea- 
tres, concerts,  the  baths,  and  so  on.  If  he  does  not 
earn  a  fortune  for  himself,  he  is  granted  a  pension,  in 
order  that  he  may  compose  the  better.  And  again, 
these  compositions,  so  prized  by  us,  remain  useless 
lumber  for  the  people,  and  utterly  unserviceable  to  them. 

And  if  still  more  of  these  dealers  in  spiritual  nourish- 
ment are  developed  further,  as  men  of  science  desire, 
and  a  studio  is  erected  in  every  village ;  if  an  orches- 
tra is  set  up,  and  authors  are  supported  in  those  con- 
ditions which  artistic  people  regard  as  indispensable 
for  themselves,  —  I  imagine  thatthe  working  classes  will 
sooner  take  an  oath  never  to  look  at  any  pictures, 
never  to  listen  to  a  s3'mphony,  never  to  read  poetry  or 
novels,  than  to  feed  all  these  persons. 


206  WHAT   TO  DOf 

And  why,  apparently,  should  art  not  be  of  service 
to  the  people  ?  In  every  cottage  there  are  images  and 
pictures  ;  every  peasaut  man  and  woman  sings ;  many 
own  harmonicas.;  and  all  recite  stories  and  verses,  and 
man}^  read.  It  is  as  if  those  two  things  which  are 
made  for  each  other  —  the  lock  and  the  key  —  had 
parted  company  ;  they  have  sprung  so  far  apart,  that 
not  even  the  possibility  of  uniting  them  presents  itself. 
Tell  the  artist  that  he  should  paint  without  a  studio, 
model,  or  costumes,  and  that  he  should  paint  five- 
kopek  pictures,  and  he  will  say  that  that  is  tantamount 
to  abandoning  his  art,  as  he  understands  it.  Tell  the 
musician  that  he  should  play  on  the  harmonica,  and 
teach  the  women  to  sing  songs ;  say  to  the  poet,  to 
the  author,  that  he  ought  to  cast  aside  his  poems  and 
romances,  and  compose  song-books,  tales,  and  stories, 
comprehensible  to  the  uneducated  people,  —  they  will 
say  that  you  are  mad. 

The  service  of  the  people  by  science  and  art  will 
only  be  performed  when  people,  dwelhng  in  the  midst 
of  the  common  folk,  and,  like  the  common  folk,  putting 
forward  no  demands,  claiming  no  rights,  shall  offer  to 
the  common  folk  their  scientific  and  artistic  services ; 
the  acceptance  or  rejection  of  which  shall  depend, 
wholly  on  the  will  of  the  common  folk. 

It  is  said  that  the  activity  of  science  and  art  has 
aided  in  the  forward  march  of  mankind,  — meaning  by 
this  activity,  that  which  is  now  called  by  that  name ; 
which  is  the  same  as  saying  that  an  unskilled  banging 
of  oars  on  a  vessel  that  is  floating  with  the  tide,  which 
merely  hinders  the  progress  of  the  vessel,  is  assisting 
the  movement  of  the  ship.  It  onl}-  retards  it.  The 
so-called  division  of  labor,  which  has  become  in  our 
day  the  condition  of  activity  of   men  of  science  and 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      207 

art,  was,  and  has  remained,  the  chief  cause  of  the 
tardy  forward  movement  of  mankind. 

The  proofs  of  this  lie  in  that  confession  of  all  men 
of  science,  that  the  gains  of  science  and  art  are  inac- 
cessible to  the  laboring  masses,  in  consequence  of  the 
faulty  distribution  of  riches.  The  irregularity  of  this 
distribution  does  not  decrease  in  proportion  to  the 
progress  of  science  and  art,  but  only  increases.  Men 
of  art  and  science  assume  an  air  of  deep  pity  for  this 
unfortunate  circumstance  which  does  not  depend  upon 
them.  But  this  unfortunate  circumstance  is  produced 
by  themselves  ;  for  this  irregular  distribution  of  wealth 
flows  solely  from  the  theory  of  the  division  of  labor. 

Science  maintains  the  division  of  labor  as  a  unalter- 
able law ;  it  sees  that  the  distribution  of  wealth, 
founded  on  the  division  of  labor,  is  wrong  and  ruin- 
ous ;  and  it  affirms  that  its  activity,  which  recognizes 
the  division  of  labor,  will  lead  people  to  bliss.  The 
result  is,  that  some  people  make  use  of  the  labor  of 
others ;  but  that,  if  they  shall  make  use  of  the  labor 
of  others  for  a  very  long  period  of  time,  and  in  still 
larger  measure,  then  this  wrongful  distribution  of 
wealth,  i.e.,  the  use  of  the  labor  of  others,  will  come 
to  an  end. 

Men  stand  beside  a  constantly  swelling  spring  of 
water,  and  are  occupied  with  the  problem  of  diverting 
it  to  one  side,  away  from  the  thirsty  people,  and  they 
assert  that  they  are  producing  this  water,  and  that  soon 
enough  will  be  collected  for  all.  But  this  water  which 
has  flowed,  and  which  still  flows  unceasingly,  and  nour- 
ishes all  mankind,  not  only  is  not  the  result  of  the  ac- 
tivity of  the  men  who,  standing  at  its  source,  turn  it 
aside,  but  this  water  flows  and  gushes  out,  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  of  these  men  to  obstruct  its  flow. 


208  WHAT   TO  DO? 

There  have  always  existed  a  true  science,  and  a  true 
art ;  but  true  science  and  art  are  not  such  because 
they  called  themselves  by  that  name.  It  always  seems 
to  those  who  claim  at  any  given  period  to  be  the  rep- 
resentatives of  science  and  art,  that  they  have  per- 
formed, and  are  performing,  and  —  most  of  all  —  that 
they  will  presently  perform,  the  most  amazing  marvels, 
and  that  beside  them  there  never  has  been  and  there  is 
not  any  science  or  any  art,  Thus  it  seemed  to  the 
sophists,  the  scholastics,  the  alchemists,  the  cabalists, 
the  talmudists  ;  and  thus  it  seems  to  our  own  scientific 
science,  and  to  our  art  for  the  sake  of  art. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      209 


*'BuT  art,  —  science!  You  repudiate  art  and  sci- 
ence; that  is,  you  repudiate  that  by  which  mankind 
lives  !  "  People  are  constantly  making  this  —  it  is  not 
a  reply  —  to  me,  and  they  employ  this  mode  of  recep- 
tion in  order  to  reject  my  deductions  without  examining 
into  them.  "  He  repudiates  science  and  art,  he  wants 
to  send  people  back  again  into  a  savage  state ;  so  what 
is  the  use  of  listening  to  him  and  of  talking  to  him?" 
But  this  is  unjust.  I  not  only  do  not  repudiate  art 
and  science,  but,  in  the  name  of  that  which  is  true  art 
and  true  science,  I  say  that  which  I  do  say  ;  merely  in 
order  that  mankind  may  emerge  from  that  savage  state 
into  wliich  it  will  speedily  fall,  thanks  to  tlie  erroneous 
teacliing  of  our  time,  —  only  for  this  purpose  do  I  say 
that  which  I  say. 

Art  and  science  are  as  indispensable  as  food  and 
drink  and  clothing,  —  more  indispensable  even;  but 
they  become  so,  not  because  we  decide  that  what 
we  designate  as  art  and  science  are  indispensable, 
but  simply  because  they  really  are  indispensable  to 
people. 

Surely,  if  hay  is  prepared  for  the  bodily  nourish- 
ment of  men,  the  fact  that  we  are  convinced  that  hay 
is  the  proper  food  for  man  will  not  make  hay  the  food 
of  man.  Surely  I  cannot  say,  ''  Why  do  not  you  eat 
ha}-,  when  it  is  the  indispensable  food?"  P'ood  is 
in  dispensable,  but  it  may  happen   that   that  which  1 


210  WHAT  TO  DO? 

offer  is  not  food  at  all.  This  same  thing  has  occurred 
with  our  art  and  science.  It  seems  to  us,  that  if  we 
add  to  a  Greek  word  the  word  "  logy,"  and  call  that  a 
science,  it  will  be  a  science  ;  and,  if  we  call  any  abomin- 
able thing  —  like  the  dancing  of  nude  females  —  by  a 
Greek  word,  choreography,  that  that  is  art,  and  that 
it  will  be  art.  But  no  matter  how  much  we  may  saj' 
this,  the  business  with  which  we  occupy  ourselves 
when  we  count  beetles,  and  investigate  the  chemical 
constituents  of  the  stars  in  the  Milky  Wa3%  when  we 
pamt  nymphs  and  compose  novels  and  symphonies,  — 
our  business  will  not  become  either  art  or  science  until 
such  time  as  it  is  accepted  by  those  people  for  whom 
it  is  wrought. 

If  it  were  decided  that  only  certain  people  should 
produce  food,  and  if  all  the  rest  were  forbidden  to  do 
this,  or  if  they  were  rendered  incapable  of  producing 
food,  I  suppose  that  the  quality  of  food  would  be  low- 
ered. If  the  people  who  enjoyed  the  monopoly  of 
producing  food  were  Russian  peasants,  there  would  be 
no  other  food  than  black  bread  and  cabbage-soup,  and 
so  on,  and  kvas,  — nothing  except  what  they  like,  and 
what  is  agreeable  to  them.  The  same  thing  would 
happen  in  the  case  of  that  loftiest  human  pursuit,  of 
arts  and  sciences,  if  one  caste  were  to  arrogate  to  itself 
a  monopoly  of  them  :  but  with  this  sole  difference,  that, 
in  the  matter  of  bodily  food,  there  can  be  no  great 
departure  from  nature,  and  bread  and  cabbage-soup, 
although  not  ver\^  savory  viands,  are  fit  for  consump- 
tion ;  but  in  spiritual  food,  there  may  exist  the  very 
greatest  departures  from  nature,  and  some  people  may 
feed  themselves  for  a  long  time  on  poisonous  spiritual 
nourishment,  which  is  directly  unsuitable  for,  or  injuri- 
ous to,  them ;   they  may  slowly  kill   themselves  with 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      211 

spiritual  opium  or  liquors,  and  they  may  offer  this  same 
food  to  the  masses. 

It  is  this  very  thing  that  is  going  on  among  us. 
And  it  has  come  about  because  the  position  of  men  of 
science  and  art  is  a  privileged  one,  because  art  and 
science  (in  our  day),  in  our  world,  are  not  at  all  a 
rational  occupation  of  all  mankind  without  exception, 
exerting  their  best  powers  for  the  service  of  art  and  sci- 
ence, but  an  occupation  of  a  restricted  circle  of  people 
holding  a  monopoly  of  these  industries,  and  entitling 
themselves  men  of  art  and  science,  and  who  have, 
therefore,  perverted  the  very  idea  of  art  and  science, 
and  have  lost  all  the  meaning  of  their  vocation,  and 
who  are  only  concerned  in  amusing  and  rescuing  from 
crushing  eyimd  their  tiny  circle  of  idle  mouths. 

Ever  since  men  have  existed,  they  have  always  had 
science  and  art  in  the  simplest  and  broadest  sense 
of  the  tenn.  Science,  in  the  sense  of  the  whole  of 
knowledge  acquired  by  mankind,  exists  and  always 
has  existed,  and  life  without  it  is  not  conceivable  ;  and 
there  is  no  possibility  of  either  attacking  or  defending 
science,  taken  in  this  sense. 

But  the  point  lies  here, —  that  the  scope  of  the 
knowledge  of  all  mankind  as  a  whole  is  so  multifari- 
ous, ranging  from  the  knowledge  of  how  to  extract 
iron  to  the  knowledge  of  the  movements  of  the  planets, 
that  man  loses  himself  in  this  multitude  of  existing 
knowledge,  —  knowledge  capable  of  endless  possibili- 
ties, if  he  have  no  guiding  thread,  by  the  aid  of  which 
he  can  classify  this  knowledge,  and  arrange  the 
branches  accordmg  to  the  degrees  of  their  signifi- 
cance and  importance. 

Before  a  man  undertakes  to  learn  any  thing  whatever, 
he  must  make  up  his  mind  that  that  branch  of  knowl- 


212  WHAT  TO  DO? 

edge  is  of  weight  to  him,  and  of  more  weight  and 
importance  than  the  countless  other  objects  of  study 
with  which  he  is  surrounded.  Before  undertaking  the 
study  of  any  thing,  a  man  decides  for  what  puri)ose 
he  is  studying  this  subject,  and  not  the  others.  But 
to  study  every  thing,  as  the  men  of  scientific  science 
in  our  day  preach,  without  any  idea  of  what  is  to  come 
out  of  such  study,  is  downright  impossible,  because 
the  number  of  subjects  of  study  is  endless;  and  hence, 
no  matter  how  many  brandies  we  may  acquire,  their 
acquisition  can  possess  no  significance  or  reason. 
And,  therefore,  in  ancient  times,  down  to  even  a  very 
recent  date,  until  the  appearance  of  scientific  science, 
men's  highest  wisdom  consisted  in  finding  that  guiding 
thread,  according  to  which  the  knowledge  of  men  could 
be  classified  as  being  of  primary  or  of  secondary  im- 
portance. And  this  knowledge,  which  forms  the  guide 
to  all  other  branches  of  knowledge,  men  have  always 
called  science  in  the  strictest  acceptation  of  the  word. 
And  such  science  there  has  always  been,  even  down  to 
our  own  day,  in  all  human  communities  which  have 
emerged  from  their  primal  state  of  savageiy. 

Ever  since  mankind  has  existed,  teachers  have  al- 
ways arisen  among  peoples,  who  have  enunciated  sci- 
ence in  this  restricted  sense,  — the  science  of  what  it  is 
most  useful  for  man  to  know.  This  science  has  always 
had  for  its  object  the  knowledge  of  what  is  the  true 
ground  of  the  well-being  of  each  individual  man,  and  of 
all  men,  and  why.  Such  was  the  science  of  Confucius, 
of  Buddha,  of  Socrates,  of  Mahomet,  and  of  others ; 
such  is  this  science  as  they  understood  it,  and  as  all  men 
—  with  the  exception  of  our  little  circle  of  so-called 
cultured  people  —  understand  it.  This  science  has  not 
only  always  occupied  the  highest  place,  but  has  been 


ON  SfGNlFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      213 

the  only  and  sole  science,  from  which  the  standing  of 
the  rest  has  been  determined.  And  this  was  the  case, 
not  in  the  least  because,  as  the  so-called  scientific  people 
of  our  day  tliink,  cunning  priestly  teachers  of  this  sci- 
ence attributed  to  it  such  significance,  but  because  in 
reality,  as  every  one  knows,  both  by  personal  experi- 
ence and  by  reflection,  there  can  be  no  science  except 
the  science  of  that  in  which  the  destiny  and  welfare  of 
man  consist.  For  the  objects  of  science  are  Inddculahle 
in  number,  —  I  underline  tlie  word  "  incalculable  "  in 
the  exact  sense  in  which  I  understand  it,  —  and  without 
the  knowledge  of  that  in  which  the  destiny  and  welfare 
of  all  men  consist,  there  is  no  possibilit}'  of  making 
a  choice  amid  this  interminable  multitude  of  subjects ; 
and  therefore,  without  this  knowledge,  all  other  arts 
and  branches  of  learning  will  become,  as  they  have 
become  among  us,  an  idle  and  hurtful  diversion. 

Mankind  has  existed  and  existed,  and  never  has 
it  existed  without  the  science  of  that  in  which  the 
destiny  and  the  welfare  of  men  consist.  It  is  true  that 
the  science  of  the  welfare  of  men  appears  different  on 
superficial  observation,  among  the  Buddhists,  the  Brah- 
mins, the  Hebrews,  the  Confucians,  the  Tauists :  but 
nevertheless,  wherever  we  hear  of  men  who  have 
emerged  from  a  state  of  savagery,  we  find  this  sci- 
ence. And  all  of  a  sudden  it  appears  that  the  men 
of  our  day  have  decided  that  this  same  science,  which 
has  hitherto  served  as  the  ojuidinor  thread  of  all  human 
knowledge,  is  the  very  thing  which  hinders  every  thing. 
Men  erect  buildings  ;  and  one  architect  has  made  one 
estimate  of  cost,  a  second  has  made  another,  and  a 
third  yet  another.  The  estimates  differ  somewhat ;  but 
they  are  correct,  so  that  any  one  can  see,  that,  if  the 
whole  is  carried  out  in  accordance  with  the  calcula- 


214  WHAT  TO  DO? 

tions,  the  building  will  be  erected.  Along  come  peo- 
ple, and  assert  that  the  chief  point  lies  in  having  no 
estimates,  and  that  it  should  be  built  thus  —  by  the  eye. 
And  this  '*  thus,"  men  call  the  most  accurate  of  scien- 
tific science.  Men  repudiate  every  science,  the  very 
substance  of  science, — the  definition  of  the  destiny 
and  the  welfare  of  men,  —  and  this  repudiation  they 
designate  as  science. 

Ever  since  men  have  existed,  great  minds  have  been 
born  into  their  midst,  which,  in  the  conflict  with  reason 
and  conscience,  have  put  to  themselves  questions  as  to 
^'  what  constitutes  welfare,  — the  destiny  and  welfare, 
not  of  myself  alone,  but  of  every  man?  "  What  does 
that  power  which  has  created  and  which  leads  me, 
demand  of  me  and  of  every  man?  And  what  is  it 
necessary  for  me  to  do,  in  order  to  comply  with  the 
requirements  imposed  upon  me  by  the  demands  of 
individual  and  universal  welfare?  They  have  asked 
themselves :  "  I  am  a  whole,  and  also  a  part  of  some- 
thing infinite,  eternal;  what,  then,  are  my  relations 
to  other  parts  similar  to  myself,  to  men  and  to  the 
whole  —  to  the  world  ?  " 

And  from  the  voices  of  conscience  and  of  reason, 
and  from  a  comparison  of  what  their  contemporaries 
and  men  who  had  lived  before  them,  and  who  had  pro-^ 
pounded  to  themselves  the  same  questions,  had  said, 
these  great  teachers  have  deduced  their  doctrines,  which 
were  simple,  clear,  intelligible  to  all  men,  and  always 
such  as  were  susceptible  of  fulfilment.  Such  men  have 
existed  of  the  first,  second,  third,  and  lowest  ranks. 
The  world  is  full  of  such  men.  Every  living  man  pro- 
pounds the  question  to  himself,  how  to  reconcile  the 
demands  of  welfare,  and  of  his  personal  existence, 
with  conscience  and  reason  ;   and  from  this  universal 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      215 

labor,  slowly  but  uninterruptedly,  new  forms  of  life, 
which  are  more  in  accord  with  the  requirements  of 
reason  and  of  conscience,  are  worked  out. 

All  at  once,  a  new  caste  of  people  makes  its  appear- 
ance, and  they  say,  "  All  this  is  nonsense  ;  all  this  must 
be  abandoned."  This  is  the  deductive  method  of  ratio- 
cination (wherein  lies  the  difference  between  the  deduc- 
tive and  the  inductive  method,  no  one  can  understand)  ; 
these  are  the  dogmas  of  the  technological  and  meta- 
physical period.  Every  thing  that  these  men  discover 
by  inward  experience,  and  which  they  communicate  to 
one  another,  concerning  their  knowledge  of  the  law  of 
their  existence  (of  their  functional  activity,  according 
to  their  own  jargon),  every  thing  that  the  grandest 
minds  of  mankind  have  accomplished  in  this  direc- 
tion, since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  —  all  this  is 
nonsense,  and  has  no  weight  whatever.  According  to 
this  new  doctrine,  it  ai)pears  that  j'ou  are  cells :  and 
that  you,  as  a  cell,  have  a  very  definite  functional 
activity,  which  you  not  only  fulfil,  but  which  you 
infallibly  feel  within  you  ;  and  that  you  arc  a  thinking, 
talking,  understanding  cell,  and  that  you,  for  tliis 
reason,  can  ask  another  similar  talking  cell  whether 
it  is  just  the  same,  and  in  this  way  verify  your  own 
experience ;  that  you  can  take  advantage  of  the  fact 
that  speaking  cells,  which  have  lived  before  you,  have 
written  on  the  same  subject,  and  that  you  have  mil- 
lions of  cells  which  confirm  your  observations  by  their 
agreement  with  the  cells  which  have  written  down  their 
thoughts,  —  all  this  signifies  nothing ;  all  this  is  an 
evil  and  an  erroneous  method. 

The  true  scientific  method  is  this :  If  you  wish  to 
know  in  what  the  destiny  and  the  welfare  of  all  man- 
kind and  of  all  the  world  consists,  you  must,  first  of 


216  WHAT  TO   DO? 

all,  cease  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  3'our  conscience  and 
of  3'our  reason,  which  present  themselves  in  3'ou  and  in 
others  like  you  ;  you  must  cease  to  believe  all  that  the 
great  teachers  of  mankind  have  said  with  regard  to 
your  conscience  and  reason,  and  you  must  consider  all 
this  as  nonsense,  and  begin  all  over  again.  And,  in 
order  to  understand  every  thing  from  the  beginning, 
you  must  look  through  microscopes  at  the  movements 
of  amoebae,  and  cells  in  worms,  or,  with  still  greater 
composure,  believe  in  every  thing  that  men  with  a 
diploma  of  infallibility  shall  say  to  you  about  them. 
And  as  you  gaze  at  the  movements  of  these  cells,  or 
read  about  what  others  have  seen,  you  must  attribute 
to  these  cells  your  own  human  sensations  and  calcula- 
tions as  to  what  they  desire,  whither  they  are  directing 
themselves,  .how  they  compare  and  discuss,  and  to 
what  they  have  become  accustomed ;  and  from  these 
observations  (in  which  there  is  not  a  word  about  an 
error  of  thought  or  of  expression)  you  must  deduce 
a  conclusion  by  analogy  as  to  what  you  are,  what  is 
yourvdestin}^  wherein  lies  the  welfare  of  yourself  and 
of  other  cells  like  you.  In  order  to  understand  your- 
self, you  must  study  not  only  the  worms  which  you  see, 
but  microscopic  creatures  which  you  can  barely  see,  and 
transformations  from  one  set  of  creatures  into  others,, 
which  no  one  has  ever  beheld,  and  which  you,  most 
assuredly,  will  never  behold.  And  the  same  with  art. 
Where  there  has  been  true  science,  art  has  always  been 
its  exponent. 

P^ver  since  men  have  been  in  existence,  they  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  deducing,  from  all  pursuits,  the  expres- 
sions of  various  branches  of  learning  concerning  the  des- 
tiny and  the  welfare  of  man,  and  the  expression  of  this 
knowledge  has  been  art  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      217 

Ever  since  men  have  existed,  there  have  been  those 
who  were  peculiarly  sensitive  and  responsive  to  the 
doctrine  regarding  the  desliny  and  welfare  of  man ; 
who  have  given  expression  to  their  own  and  the  popu- 
lar conflict,  to  the  delusions  which  lead  them  astray 
from  their  destinies,  their  sufferings  in  this  conflict, 
their  hopes  in  the  triumph  of  good,  their  despair  over 
the  triumph  of  evil,  and  their  raptures  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  approaching  bliss  of  man,  on  viol  and 
tabret,  in  images  and  words.  Always,  down  to  the 
most  recent  times,  art  has  served  science  and  life,  — 
only  then  was  it  what  has  been  so  highly  esteemed  of 
men.  But  art,  in  its  capacity  of  an  important  human 
activity,  disappeared  simultaneously  with  the  substitu- 
tion for  the  genuine  science  of  destiny  and  welfare,  of 
the  science  of  any  thing  you  choose  to  fancy.  Art 
has  existed  among  all  peoples,  and  will  exist  until  that 
which  among  us  is  scornfully  called  religion  has  come 
to  be  considered  the  only  science. 
•  In  our  European  world,  so  long  as  there  existed  a 
Church,  as  the  doctrine  of  destiny  and  welfare,  and  so 
long  as  the  Church  was  regarded  as  the  only  true  sci- 
ence, art  served  the  Church,  and  remained  true  art: 
but  as  soon  as  art  abandoned  the  Church,  and  began 
to  serve  science,  while  science  served  whatever  came  to 
hand,  art  lost  its  significance.  And  notwithstanding  the 
rights  claimed  on  the  score  of  ancient  memories,  and  of 
the  clumsy  assertion  which  only  proves  its  loss  of  its 
calhng,  that  art  serves  art,  it  has  become  a  trade,  pro- 
viding men  with  something  agreeable ;  and  as  such,  it 
inevitably  comes  into  the  category  of  choreographic, 
culinary,  hair-dressing,  and  cosmetic  arts,  whose  prac- 
titioners designate  themselves  as  artists,  with  the  same 
right  as  the  poets,  painters,  and  musicians  of  our  day. 


218  WHAT   TO  DO? 

Glance  backward  into  the  past,  and  3'ou  will  see  that 
in  the  course  of  thousands  of  years,  out  of  milliards  of 
people,  only  half  a  score  of  Confucius',  Buddhas,  Solo- 
mons, Socrates,  Solons,  and  Homers  have  been  pro- 
duced. Evidently,  they  are  rarely  met  with  among 
men,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  these  men  have  not  been 
selected  from  a  single  caste,  but  from  mankind  at 
large.  Evidently,  these  true  teachers  and  artists  and 
learned  men,  the  purveyors  of  spiritual  nourishment, 
are  rare.  And  it  is  not  without  reason  that  mankind 
has  valued  and  still  values  them  so  highly. 

But  it  now  appeal's,  that  all  these  great  factors  in  the 
science  and  art  of  the  past  are  no  longer  of  use  to  us. 
Nowadays,  scientific  and  artistic  authorities  can,  in 
accordance  with  the  law  of  division  of  labor,  be  turned 
out  by  factory  methods ;  and,  in  one  decade,  more 
great  men  have  been  manufactured  in  art  and  science, 
than  have  ever  been  born  of  such  among  all  nations, 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world.  Nowadays  there 
is  a  guild  of  learned  men  and  artists,  and  they  prepare, 
by  perfected  methods,  all  that  spiritual  food  which  man 
requires.  And  they  have  prepared  so  much  of  it,  that 
it  is  no  longer  necessary  to  refer  to  the  elder  authorities, 
who  have  preceded  them,  —  not  only  to  the  ancients, 
but  to  those  much  nearer  to  us.  All  that  was  the 
activity  of  the  theological  and  metaphysical  period,  — 
all  that  must  be  wiped  out :  but  the  true,  the  rational 
activity  began,  say,  fifty  years  ago,  and  m  the  course 
of  those  fifty  years  we  have  made  so  many  great  men, 
that  there  are  about  ten  great  men  to  every  branch  of 
science.  And  there  have  come  to  be  so  many  sciences, 
that,  fortunateh',  it  is  eas\'  to  make  them.  All  that 
is  required  is  to  add  the  Greek  word  "logy  "  to  the 
name,  and  force  them  to  conform  to  a  set  lubric,  and 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE   AND   ART.      219 

the  science  is  all  complete.  They  have  created  so  many 
sciences,  that  not  only  can  no  one  man  know  them  all, 
but  not  a  single  individual  can  remember  all  the  titles 
of  all  the  existing  sciences  ;  the  titles  alone  form  a 
thick  lexicon,  and  new  sciences  are  manufactured  every 
day.  They  have  been  manufactured  on  the  pattern  of 
that  Finnish  teacher  who  taught  the  landed  proprie- 
tor's children  Finnish  instead  of  French.  Every  thing 
has  been  excellently  inculcated  ;  but  there  is  one  objec- 
tion, —  that  no  one  except  oui  selves  can  understand 
any  thing  of  it,  and  all  this  is  reckoned  as  utterly  use- 
less nonsense.  However,  there  is  an  explanation  even 
for  this.  People  do  not  appreciate  the  full  value  of 
scientific  science,  because  they  are  under  the  influence 
of  the  theological  period,  that  profound  period  when 
all  the  people,  both  among  the  Hebrews,  and  the  Chi- 
nese, and  the  Indians,  and  the  Greeks,  understood 
every  thing  that  their  great  teachers  said  to  them. 

But,  from  whatever  cause  this  has  come  about,  the  fact 
remains,  that  sciences  and  arts  have  always  existed 
among  mankind,  and,  when  they  really  did  exist,  they 
were  useful  and  intelligible  to  all  the  people.  But  we 
practise  something  which  we  call  science  and  art,  but 
it  appears  that  what  we  do  is  unnecessary  and  unintel- 
ligible to  man.  And  hence,  however  beautiful  may  be 
the  things  that  we  accomplish,  we  have  no  right  to 
call  them  arts  and  sciences. 


220  WHAT  TO  DOt 


VI. 


*'  But  you  onlj"  furnish  a  different  definition  of  arts 
and  sciences,  which  is  stricter,  and  is  incompatible  with 
science,"  I  shall  be  told  in  answer  to  this;  *' never- 
theless, scientific  and  artistic  activity  does  still  exist. 
There  are  the  Galileos,  Brunos,  Homers,  Michael 
Angelos,  Beethovens,  and  all  the  lesser  learned  men 
and  artists,  who  have  consecrated  their  entire  lives  to 
the  service  of  science  and  art,  and  who  were,  and  will 
remain,  the  benefactors' of  mankind." 

Generally  this  is  what  people  say,  striving  to  forget 
that  new  principle  of  the  division  of  labor,  on  the  basis 
of  which  science  and  art  now  occupy  their  privileged 
position,  and  on  whose  basis  we  are  now  enabled  to 
decide  without  grounds,  but  by  a  given  standard :  Is 
there,  or  is  there  not,  any  foundation  for  that  activity 
which  calls  itself  science  and  art,  to  so  magnify 
itself? 

When  the  Egyptian  or  the  Grecian  priests  produced' 
their  mysteries,  which  were  unintelligible  to  any  one, 
and  stated  concerning  these  mysteries  that  all  science 
and  all  art  were  contained  in  them,  I  could  not  verify 
the  reality  of  their  science  on  the  basis  of  the  benefit 
procured  by  them  to  the  people,  because  science, 
according  to  their  assertions,  was  supernatural.  But 
now  we  all  possess  a  very  simple  and  clear  definition  of 
the  activity  of  art  and  science,  which  excludes  every 
thing  supernatural :   science  and  art  promise  to  carry 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      221 

out  the  mental  activity  of  mankind,  for  the  welfare  of 
society,  or  of  all  the  human  race. 

The  definition  of  scientific  science  and  art  is  entirely 
correct ;  but,  unfortunately,  the  activity  of  the  present 
arts  and  sciences  does  not  come  under  this  head. 
Some  of  them  are  directly  injurious,  others  are  use- 
less, others  still  are  worthless, — good  only  for  the 
wealthy.  They  do  not  fulfil  that  which,  by  their  own 
definition,  they  have  undertaken  to  accomplish  ;  and 
hence  they  have  as  little  right  to  regard  themselves 
as  men  of  art  and  science,  as  a  corrupt  priesthood, 
which  does  not  fulfil  the  obligations  which  it  has 
assumed,  has  the  right  to  regard  itself  as  the  bearer 
of  divine  truth. 

And  it  can  be  understood  why  the  makers  of  the 
present  arts  and  sciences  have  not  fulfilled,  and  cannot 
fulfil,  their  vocation.  They  do  not  fulfil  it,  because  out 
of  their  obligations  they  have  erected  a  right. 

Scientific  and  artistic  activity,  in  its  real  sense,  is 
only  fruitful  when  it  knows  no  rights,  but  recognizes 
only  obligations.  Only  because  it  is  its  property  to  be 
always  thus,  does  mankind  so  highly  prize  this  activity. 
If  men  really  were  called  to  the  service  of  others  through 
artistic  work,  they  would  see  in  that  work  only  obliga- 
tion, and  they  would  fulfil  it  with  toil,  with  privations, 
and  with  self-abnegation. 

The  thinker  or  the  artist  will  never  sit  calmly  on 
Olympian  heights,  as  we  have  become  accustomed  to 
represent  them  to  ourselves.  The  thinker  or  the  artist 
should  suffer  in  company  with  the  people,  in  order  that 
he  may  find  salvation  or  consolation.  Besides  this,  he 
will  suffer  because  he  is  always  and  eternally  in  turmoil 
and  agitation  :  he  might  decide  and  say  that  that  which 
would  confer  welfare  on  men,  would  free  them  from 


222  ~       WHAT  TO  DO? 

sufifering,  would  afford  them  consolation ;  but  he  has 
not  said  so,  and  has  not  presented  it  as  he  should  have 
done ;  he  has  not  decided,  and  he  has  not  spoken ;  and 
to-morrow,  possibly,  it  will  be  too  late, — he  will  die. 
And  therefore  suffering  and  self-sacrifice  will  always 
be  the  lot  of  the  thinker  and  the  artist. 

Not  of  this  description  will  be  the  thinker  and  artist 
who  is  reared  in  an  establishment  where,  apparently, 
they  manufacture  the  learned  man  or  the  artist  (but 
in  point  of  fact,  they  manufacture  destroyers  of  science 
and  of  art) ,  who  receives  a  diploma  and  a  certificate, 
who  would  be  glad  not  to  think  and  not  to  express 
that  which  is  imposed  on  his  soul,  but  who  cannot 
avoid  doing  that  to  which  two  irresistible  forces  draw 
him,  —  an  inward  prompting,  and  the  demand  of 
men. 

There  will  be  no  sleek,  plump,  self-satisfied  thinkers 
and  artists.  Spiritual  activity,  and  its  expression, 
which  are  actually  necessary  to  others,  are  the  most 
burdensome  of  all  man's  avocations ;  a  cross,  as  the 
Gospels  phrase  it.  And  the  sole  indubitable  sign  of 
the  presence  of  a  vocation  is  self-devotion,  the  sacri- 
fice of  self  for  the  manifestation  of  the  power  that  is 
imposed  upon  man  for  the  benefit  of  others. 

It  is  possible  to  study  out  how  many  beetles  there, 
are  in  the  world,  to  view  the  spots  on  the  sun,  to  write 
romances  and  operas,  without  suffering ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible, without  self-sacrifice,  to  instruct  people  in 
their  true  happiness,  which  consists  solely  in  renuncia- 
tion of  self  and  the  service  of  others,  and  to  give 
strong  expression  to  this  doetrine,  without  self-sacri- 
fice. 

Christ  did  not  die  on  the  cross  in  vain  ;  not  in  vain 
does  the  sacrifice  of  suffering  conquer  all  things. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      223 

But  our  art  and  science  are  provided  with  certificates 
and  diplomas  ;  and  the  only  anxiety  of  all  men  is,  how 
to  still  better  guarantee  them,  i.e.,  how  to  render  the 
service  of  the  people  impracticable  for  them. 

True  art  and  true  science  possess  two  unmistakable 
marks :  the  first,  an  inward  mark,  which  is  this,  that 
the  servitor  of  art  and  science  will  fulfil  his  vocation, 
not  for  profit  but  with  self-sacrifice ;  and  the  second, 
an  external  sign,  —  his  productions  will  be  intelligible 
to  all  the  people  whose  welfare  he  has  in  view. 

No  matter  what  people  have  fixed  upon  as  their 
vocation  and  their  welfare,  science  will  be  the  doctrine 
of  this  vocation  and  welfare,  and  art  will  be*  the  ex- 
pression of  that  doctrine.  That  which  is  called  science 
and  art,  among  us,  is  the  product  of  idle  minds  and 
feelings,  which  have  for  their  object  to  tickle  similar 
idle  minds  and  feelings.  Our  arts  and  sciences  are 
incomprehensible,  and  say  nothing  to  the  people,  for 
they  have  not  the  welfare  of  the  common  people  in 
view. 

Ever  since  the  life  of  men  has  been  known  to  us, 
we  find,  always  and  everywhere,  the  reigning  doctrine 
falsely  designating  itself  as  science,  not  manifestmg 
itself  to  the  common  people,  but  obscuring  for  them 
the  meaning  of  life.  Thus  it  was  among  the  Greeks 
the  sophists,  then  among  the  Christians  the  mystics, 
gnostics,  scholastics,  among  the  Hebrews  the  Tal- 
mudists  and  Cabalists,  and  so  on  everywhere,  down  to 
our  own  times. 

How  fortunate  it  is  for  us  that  we  live  in  so  pe- 
culiar an  age,  when  that  mental  activity  which  calls 
itself  science,  not  only  does  not  err,  but  finds  itself, 
as  we  are  assured,  in  a  remarkably  flourishing  condi- 
tion !     Does  not  this  peculiar  good  fortune  arise  from 


224  WHAT  TO   DOf 

the  fact  that  man  can  not  and  will  not  see  his  own 
hideousness?  Why  is  there  nothing  left  of  those 
sciences,  and  sophists,  and  Cabalists,  and  Talmudists, 
but  words,  while  we  are  so  exceptionally  happy? 
Surely  the  signs  are  identical.  There  is  the  same  self- 
satisfaction  and  blind  confidence  that  we,  precisely 
we,  and  only  we,  are  on  the  right  path,  and  that  the 
real  thing  is  only  beginning  with  us.  There  is  the 
same  expectation  that  we  shall  discover  something 
remarkable ;  and  that  chief  sign  which  leads  us  astray 
convicts  us  of  our  error:  all  our  wisdom  remains  with 
us,  and  the  common  people  do  not  understand,  and  do 
not  accept,  and  do  not  need  it. 

Our  position  is  a  very  difficult  one,  but  why  not  look 
at  it  squarely  ? 

It  is  time  to  recover  our  senses,  and  to  scrutinize 
ourselves.  Surely  we  are  nothing  else  than  the  scribes 
and  Pharisees,  who  sit  in  Moses'  seat,  and  who  have 
taken  the  keys  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  will 
neither  go  in  ourselves,  nor  permit  others  to  go  in. 
Surely  we,  the  high  priests  of  science  and  art,  are  our- 
selves worthless  deceivers,  possessing  much  less  right 
to  our  position  than  the  most  crafty  and  depraved 
priests.  Surely  we  have  no  justification  for  our  privi- 
leged position.  The  priests  had  a  right  to  their  po-. 
sition :  they  declared  that  they  taught  the  people  life 
and  salvation.  But  we  have  taken  their  place,  and  we 
do  not  instruct  the  people  in  life,  —  we  even  admit  that 
such  instruction  is  unnecessary,  — but  we  educate  our 
children  in  the  same  Talmudic-Greek  and  Latin  gram- 
mar, in  order  that  they  may  be  able  to  pursue  the  same 
life  of  parasites  which  we  lead  ourselves.  We  sa}', 
*' There  used  to  be  castes,  but  there  are  none  among 
us."     But  what  does  it  mean,  that  some  people  and 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      225 

their  children  toil,  while  other  people  and  their  children 
do  not  toil? 

Bring  hither  an  Indian  ignorant  of  our  language, 
and  show  him  European  life,  and  our  life,  for  several 
generations,  and  he  will  recognize  the  same  leading, 
well-defined  castes  —  of  laborers  and  non-laborers  —  as 
there  are  in  his  own  country.  And  as  in  his  land,  so 
in  ours,  the  right  of  refusing  to  labor  is  conferred  by 
a  peculiar  consecration,  which  we  call  science  and  art, 
or,  in  general  terms,  culture.  It  is  this  culture,  and  all 
the  distortions  of  sense  connected  with  it,  which  have 
brought  us  to  that  marvellous  madness,  in  consequence 
of  which  we  do  not  see  that  which  is  so  clear  and 
indubitable. 


226  WHAT  TO  not 


VII. 


Then,  what  is  to  be  done  ?     What  are  we  to  do  ? 

This  question,  which  includes  within  itself  both  an 
admission  that  our  life  is  evil  and  wrong,  and  in  con- 
nection with  this,  —  as  though  it  were  an  excuse  for  it, 
—  that  it  is  impossible,  nevertheless,  to  cliange  it, 
this  question  I  have  heard,  and  I  continue  to  hear,  on 
all  sides.  I  have  described  my  own  sufferings,  my 
own  gropings,  and  my  own  solution  of  this  question. 
I  am  the  same  kind  of  a  man  as  everybod}^  else ;  and 
if  I  am  in  any  wise  distinguished  from  the  average  man 
of  our  circle,  it  is  chiefly  in  this  respect,  that  I,  more 
than  the  average  man,  have  served  and  winked  at  the 
false  doctrine  of  our  world ;  I  have  received  more 
approbation  from  men  professing  the  prevailing  doc- 
trine :  and  therefore,  more  than  others,  have  I  become 
depraved,  and  wandered  from  the  path.  And  there- 
fore I  think  that  the  solution  of  the  problem,  which  I 
have  found  in  my  own  case,  will  be  applicable  to  all 
sincere  people  who  are  propounding  the  same  question 
to  themselves. 

First  of  all,  in  answer  to  the  question,  "  What  is  to 
be  done?"  I  told  myself :  "  I  must  lie  neither  to  other 
peoi)le  nor  to  myself.  I  must  not  fear  the  truth, 
whithersoever  it  may  lead  me." 

We  all  know  what  it  means  to  lie  to  other  people, 
but  we  are  not  afraid  to  he  to  ourselves  ;  yet  the  very 
worst  downright  lie,  to  other  people,  is  not  to  be  com- 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      227 

pared   in   its  consequences  with  the  lie  to  ourselves, 
upon  which  we  base  our  whole  life. 

This  is  the  lie  of  which  we  must  not  be  guilty  if  we 
are  to  be  in  a  position  to  answer  the  question  :  ''  What 
is  to  be  done?"  And,  in  fact,  how  am  I  to  answer 
the  question,  "  What  is  to  be  done?  '*  when  ever}-  thing 
that  I  do,  when  my  whole  life,  is  founded  on  a  lie,  and 
when  I  carefully  parade  this  lie  as  the  truth  before 
others  and  before  myself?  Not  to  lie,  in  this  sense, 
means  not  to  fear  the  truth,  not  to  devise  subterfuges, 
and  not  to  accept  the  subterfuges  devised  by  others 
for  the  purpose  of  hiding  from  myself  the  deductions 
of  my  reason  and  my  conscience ;  not  to  fear  to  part 
company  with  all  those  who  surround  me,  and  to  re- 
main alone  in  company  with  reason  and  conscience ; 
not  to  fear  that  position  to  which  the  truth  shall  lead 
me,  being  firmly  convinced  that  that  position  to  which 
truth  and  conscience  shall  conduct  me,  however  singu- 
lar it  may  be,  cannot  be  worse  than  the  one  which  is 
founded  on  a  lie.  Not  to  lie,  in  our  position  of  privi- 
leged persons  of  mental  labor,  means,  not  to  be  afraid 
to  reckon  one's  self  up  wrongly.  It  is  possible  that  you 
are  already  so  deeply  indebted  that  you  cannot  take 
stock  of  yourself ;  but  to  whatever  extent  this  may  be 
the  case,  however  long  may  be  the  account,  however 
far  you  have  strayed  from  the  path,  it  is  still  better 
than  to  continue  therein.  A  lie  to  other  people  is  not 
alone  unprofitable  ;  every  matter  is  settled  more  directly 
and  more  speedily  by  the  truth  than  by  a  lie.  A  lie  to 
others  only  entangles  matters,  and  delays  the  settle- 
ment ;  but  a  lie  to  one's  self,  set  forth  as  the  truth,  ruins 
a  man's  whole  life.  If  a  man,  having  entered  on  the 
wrong  path,  assumes  that  it  is  the  true  one,  then  every 
step  that  he  takes  on  that  path  removes  him  farther 


228  WHAT  TO  DOf 

from  his  goal.  If  a  man  who  has  long  been  travelling 
on  this  false  path  divines  for  himself,  or  is  informed 
by  some  one,  that  his  course  is  a  mistaken  one,  but 
grows  alarmed  at  the  idea  that  he  has  wandered  very 
far  astray,  and  tries  to  convince  himself  that  he  may, 
possibly,  still  strike  into  the  right  road,  then  he  never 
will  get  into  it.  If  a  man  quails  before  the  truth,  and, 
on  perceiving  it,  does  not  accept  it,  but  does  accept  a 
lie  for  the  truth,  then  he  never  will  learn  what  he  ought 
to  do.  We,  the  not  only  wealthy,  but  privileged  and 
so-called  cultivated  persons,  have  advanced  so  far  on 
the  wrong  road,  that  a  great  deal  of  determination, 
or  a  very  great  deal  of  suffering  on  the  wrong  road,  is 
required,  in  order  to  bring  us  to  our  senses  and  to 
the  acknowledgment  of  the  lie  ifi  which  we  are  living. 
I  have  perceived  the  lie  of  our  lives,  thanks  to  the 
sufferings  which  the  false  path  entailed  upon  me,  and, 
having  recognized  the  falseness  of  this  path  on  which 
I  stood,  I  have  had  the  boldness  to  go  —  at  first 
in  thought  only  —  whither  reason  and  conscience  led 
me,  without  reflecting  where  they  would  bring  me  out. 
And  I  have  been  rewarded  for  this  boldness. 

All  the  complicated,  broken,  tangled,  and  incoherent 
phenomena  of  life  surrounding  me,  have  suddenly 
become  clear ;  and  my  position  in  the  midst  of  these 
phenomena,  which  was  formerly  strange  and  burden- 
some, has  become,  all  at  once,  natural,  and  easy  to 
bear. 

In  this  new  position,  my  activity  was  defined  with  per- 
fect accuracy  ;  not  at  all  as  it  had  previously  presented 
itself  to  me,  but  as  a  new  and  much  more  peaceful, 
loving,  and  joyous  activity.  The  very  thing  which  had 
formerly  terrified  me,  now  began  to  attract  me.  Hence 
I  think,  that  the  man  who  will  honestly  put  to  himself 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      229 

the  question,  "  What  is  to  be  done?  "  and,  replying  to 
this  query,  will  not  lie  to  himself,  but  will  go  whither 
his  reason  leads,  has  already  solved  the  problem. 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  can  hinder  him  in  his 
search  for  an  issue,  —  an  erroneousl}^  lofty  idea  of  him- 
self and  of  his  position.  This  was  the  case  with  me  ; 
and  then  another,  arising  from  the  first  answer  to 
the  question:  "What  is  to  be  done?"  consisted  for 
me  in  this,  that  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  repent,  in 
the  full  sense  of  that  word,  —  i.e.,  to  entirely  alter 
my  conception  of  my  position  and  my  activity ;  to 
confess  the  hurtful ness  and  emptiness  of  my  activity, 
instead  of  its  utility  and  gravity ;  to  confess  my  own 
ignorance  instead  of  culture  ;  to  confess  my  immorality 
and  harshness  in  the  place  of  my  kindness  and  moral- 
ity ;  instead  of  my  elevation,  to  acknowledge  my  lowli- 
ness. I  say,  that  in  addition  to  not  lying  to  myself, 
I  had  to  repent,  because,  although  the  one  flows  from 
the  other,  a  false  conception  of  my  lofty  importance 
had  so  grown  up  with  me,  that,  until  I  sincerely  repented 
and  cut  myself  free  from  that  false  estimate  which  I 
had  formed  of  myself,  I  did  not  perceive  the  greater 
part  of  the  lie  of  which  I  had  been  guilty  to  myself. 
Only  when  1  had  repented,  that  is  to  say,  when  I  had 
ceased  to  look  upon  myself  as  a  peculiar  man,  and 
had  begun  to  regard  myself  as  a  man  exactly  like  every 
piie  else,  — only  then  did  my  path  become  clear  before 
me.  Before  that  time  I  had  not  been  abl^  to  answer 
the  question  :  "  What  is  to  be  done?"  li^eause  1  had 
stated  the  question  itself  wrongly.  _y 

As  long  as  I  did  not  repent,  I  put  the  question  thus : 
*'  What  sphere  of  activity  should  I  choose,  I,  the  man 
who  has  received  the  education  and  the  talents  which 
have  fallen  to  my  share?     How,  in  this  fashion,  make 


230  WHAT   TO  1)0? 

recompense  with  that  education  and  those  talents,  for 
what  1  have  taken,  and  for  what  I  still  take,  from  the 
people?"  This  question  was  wrong,  because  it  con- 
tained a  false  representation,  to  the  effect  that  I  was 
not  a  man  just  like  them,  but  a  peculiar  man  called 
to  serve  the  people  with  those  talents  and  with  that 
education  which  I  had  won  by  the  efforts  of  forty 
years. 

I  propounded  the  query  to  myself ;  but,  in  reality, 
1  had  answered  it  in  advance,  in  that  I  had  in  advance 
defined  the  sort  of  activity  which  was  agreeable  to  me, 
and  by  which  I  was  called  upon  to  serve  the  people. 
I  had,  in  fact,  asked  myself:  "  In  what  manner  could 
1,  so  ver}'  fine  a  writer,  who  had  acquired  so  much 
learning  and  talents,  make  use  of  them  for  the  benefit 
of  the  people  ?  ' ' 

But  the  question  should  have  been  put  as  it  would 
have  stood  for  a  learned  rabbi  who  had  gone  through 
the  course  of  the  Talmud,  and  had  learned  by  heart 
the  number  of  letters  m  all  the  holy  books,  and  all  the 
fine  points  of  his  art.  The  question  for  me,  as  for 
the  rabbi,  should  stand  thus  :  '^  What  am  I,  who  have 
spent,  owing  to  the  misfortune  of  my  surroundings, 
the  years  best  fitted  for  study  in  the  acquisition  of 
grammar,  geography,  judicial  science,  poetry,  novels 
and  romances,  the  French  language,  pianoforte  play- 
ing, philosophical  theories,  and  .military  exercises^ 
instead  of  inuring  myself  to  labor ;  what  am  I,  who 
have  passed  the  best  years  of  my  life  in  idle  occupa- 
tions which  are  corrupting  to  the  soul,  —  what  am  I  to 
do  in  defiance  of  these  unfortunate  conditions  of  the 
past,  in  order  that  I  may  requite  those  people  who 
during  the  whole  time  have  fed  and  clothed,  yes,  and 
who  even  now  continue  to  feed  and  clothe  me?  "    Had 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      231 

the«question  then  stood  as  it  stands  before  me  now, 
after  I  have  repented,  —  ''What  am  I,  so  corrupt  a 
man,  to  do?  "  the  answer  would  have  been  easy  :  "  To 
strive,  first  of  all,  to  support  mj^self  honestly  ;  that  is, 
to  learn  not  to  live  upon  others  ;  and  wliile  I  am  learn- 
ing, and  when  I  have  learned  this,  to  render  aid  on  all 
possible  occasions  to  the  people,  with  my  hands,  and 
my  feet,  and  my  brain,  and  m}^  heart,  and  with  every 
thing  to  which  the  people  should  present  a  claim." 

And  therefore  1  say,  that  for  the  man  of  our  circle, 
in  addition  to  not  lying  to  himself  or  to  others,  repent- 
ance is  also  necessary,  and  that  he  should  scrape  from 
himself  that  pride  which  has  sprung  up  in  us,  in  our 
culture,  in  our  refinements,  in  our  talents ;  and  that  he 
should  confess  that  he  is  not  a  benefactor  of  the 
people  and  a  distinguished  man,  who  does  not  refuse 
to  share  with  the  people  his  useful  acquirements,  but 
that  he  should  confess  himself  to  be  a  thoroughly 
guilty,  corrupt,  and  good-for-nothing  man,  who  de- 
sires to  refoiTQ  himself  and  not  to  behave  benevolently 
•towards  the  people,  but  simply  to  cease  wounding  and 
insulting  them. 

I  often  hear  the  questions  of  good  young  men  who 
sympathize  with  the  renunciatory  part  of  my  writings, 
and  who  ask,  *'  Well,  and  what  then  shall  I  do?  What 
am  I  to  do,  now  that  I  have  finished  my  course  in  the 
university,  or  in  some  other  institution,  in  order  that 
I  ma}'  be  of  use?  "  Young  men  ask  this,  and  in  the 
depths  of  their  soul  it  is  already  decided  that  the 
education  which  the}'  have  received  constitutes  their 
privilege,  and  that  they  desire  to  serve  the  people 
precisely  by  means  of  this  superiority.  And  hence, 
one  thing  which  they  will  in  no  wise  do,  is  to  bear 
themselves  honestly  and  critically  towards  that  which 


232  WHAT  TO  BO? 

they  call  their  culture,  and  ask  themselves,  are  those 
qualities  which  they  call  their  culture  good  or  bad? 
If  they  will  do  this,  they  will  infallibly  be  led  to  see 
the  necessity  of  renouncing  their  culture,  and  the 
necessity  of  beginning  to  learn  all  over  again  ;  and 
this  is  the  one  indispensable  thing.  They  can  in  no 
wise  solve  the  problem,  "  What  to  do?  "  because  this 
question  does  not  stand  before  them  as  it  should  stand. 
The  question  must  stand  thus:  '*  In  what  manner  am 
I,  a  helpless,  useless  man,  who,  owing  to  the  misfor- 
tune of  ni}"  conditions,  have  wasted  my  best  years  of 
study  in  conning  the  scientific  Talmud  which  corrupts 
soul  and  body,  to  correct  this  mistake,  and  learn  to 
serve  the  people?"  But  it  presents  itself  to  them 
thus:  "  How  am  I,  a  man  who  has  acquired  so  much 
very  fine  learning,  to  turn  this  very  fine  learning  to 
the  use  of  the  people?"  And  such  a  man  will  never 
answer  the  question,  *' What  is  to  be  done?"  until  he 
repents.  And  repentance  is  not  terrible,  just  as  truth 
is  not  terrible,  and  it  is  equally  joyful  and  fruitful.  It 
is  only  necessary  to  accept  the  truth  wholly,  and  to* 
repent  wholly,  in  order  to  understand  that  no  one  pos- 
sesses any  rights,  privileges,  or  peculiarities  in  the 
matter  of  this  life  of  ours,  but  that  there  are  no  ends 
or  bounds  to  obligation,  and  that  a  man's  first  and 
most  indubitable  duty  is  to  take  part  in  the  struggle 
with  nature  for  his  own  life  and  for  the  lives  of  others. 

And  this  confession  of  a  man's  obligation  consti- 
tutes the  gist  of  the  third  answer  to  the  question, 
"What  is  to  be  done?" 

I  tried  not  to  lie  to  myself :  I  tried  to  cast  out  from 
myself  the  remains  of  my  false  conceptions  of  the  im- 
portance of  my  education  and  talents,  and  to  repent ; 
but  on  the  way  to  a  decision  of  the  question,  "  What 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      233 

to  do?"  afresh  difficulty  arose.  There  are  so  many 
different  occupations,  that  an  indication  was  necessary 
as  to  the  precise  one  which  was  to  be  adopted.  And 
the  answer  to  this  question  was  furnished  me  by  sin- 
cere repentance  for  the  evil  in  which  I  had  lived. 

''  What  to  do?  Precisely  what  to  do?  "  all  ask,  and 
that  is  what  I  also  asked  so  long  as,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  my  exalted  idea  of  my  own  importance,  I  did 
not  perceive  that  my  first  and  unquestionable  duty 
was  to  feed  myself,  to  clothe  m^yself,  to  furnish  my 
own  fuel,  to  do  my  own  building,  and,  by  so  doing,  to 
serve  others,  because,  ever  since  the  world  has  existed, 
the  first  and  indubitable  duty  of  every  man  has  con- 
sisted and  does  consist  in  this. 

In  fact,  no  matter  what  a  man  may  have  assumed 
to  be  his  vocation,  —  whether  it  be  to  govern  people, 
to  defend  his  fellow-countrymen,  to  perform  divine 
service,  to  instruct  others,  to  invent  means  to  heighten 
the  pleasures  of  life,  to  discover  the  laws  of  the  world, 
to  incorporate  eternal  truths  in  artistic  representations, 
—  the  duty  of  a  reasonable  man  is  to  take  part  in  the 
struggle  with  nature,  for  the  sustenance  of  his  own  life 
and  of  that  of  others.  This  obligation  is  the  first  of  all, 
because  what  people  need  most  of  all  is  their  life  ;  and 
therefore,  in  order  to  defend  and  instruct  the  people, 
and  render  their  lives  more  agreeable,  it  is  reqiiisite 
to  preserve  that  life  itself,  while  my  refusal  to  share 
in  the  struggle,  my  monopoly  of  the  labors  of  others,  is 
equivalent  to  annihilation  of  the  lives  of  others.  And, 
therefore,  it  is  not  rational  to  serve  the  lives  of  men 
by  annihilating  the  lives  of  men  ;  and  it  is  impossible 
to  say  that  I  am  serving  men,  wlien,  by  my  life,  I  am 
obviously  injuring  them. 

A  man's  obligation  to  struggle  with  nature  for  the 


234  WHAT   TO   DO? 

acquisition  of  the  means  of  livelihood  will  always  be 
the  first  and  most  unquestionable  of  all  obligations, 
because  this  obligation  is  a  law  of  life,  departure  from 
which  entails  the  inevitable  punishment  of  either  bodily 
or  mental  aunihilation  of  the  life  of  man.  If  a  man 
living  alone  excuses  himself  from  the  obligation  of 
struggling  with  nature,  he  is  immediately  punished, 
in  that  his  body  perishes.  But  if  a  man  excuses  him- 
self from  this  obligation  by  making  other  people  fulfil 
it  for  him,  then  also  he  is  immediately  punished  by 
the  annihilation  of  his  mental  life ;  that  is  to  say,  of 
the  life  which  possesses  rational  thought. 

In  this  one  act,  man  receives  —  if  the  two  things 
are  to  be  separated  —  full  satisfaction  of  the  bodily 
and  spiritual  demands  of  his  nature.  The  feeding, 
clothing,  and  taking  care  of  himself  and  his  family, 
constitute  the  satisfaction  of  the  bodily  demands  and 
requirements ;  and  doing  the  same  for  other  people, 
constitutes  the  satisfaction  of  his  spiritual  require- 
ments. Every  other  employment  of  man  is  only  legal 
when  it  is  directed  to  the  satisfaction  of  this  very  first 
duty  of  man  ;  for  the  fulfilment  of  this  duty  constitutes 
the  whole  life  of  man. 

I  had  been  so  turned  about  by  my  previous  life,  this 
first  and  indubitable  law  of  God  or  of  nature  is  'So 
concealed  in  our  sphere  of  society,  that  the  fulfilment 
of  this  law  seemed  to  me  strange,  terrible,  even  shame- 
ful ;  as  though  the  fulfilment  of  an  eternal,  unquestion- 
able law,  and  not  the  departure  from  it,  can  be  terrible, 
strange,  and  shameful. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  fulfilment  of  this 
matter  required  some  preparation,  arrangement  or  com- 
munity of  men,  holding  similar  views,  — the  consent  of 
one's  family,  life  in  the  country ;  it  seemed  to  me  dis- 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      285 

graceful  to  make  a  show  of  myself  before  people,  to 
undertake  a  thing  so  improper  in  our  conditions  of  exist- 
ence, as  bodily  toil,  and  I  did  not  know  how  to  set  about 
it.  But  it  was  only  necessary  for  me  to  understand  that 
this  is  no  exclusive  occupation  which  requires  to  be 
invented  and  arranged  for,  but  that  this  employment 
was  merely  a  return  from  the  false  position  in  which  I 
found  myself,  to  a  natural  one  ;  was  only  a  rectification 
of  that  lie  in  which  I  was  living.  1  had  only  to 
recognize  this  fact,  and  all  these  difficulties  vanished. 
It  was  not  in  the  least  necessary  to  make  preparations 
and  arrangements,  and  to  await  the  consent  of  others, 
for,  no  matter  in  what  position  I  had  found  myself, 
there  had  always  been  people  who  had  fed,  clothed  and 
warmed  me,  in  addition  to  themselves ;  and  every- 
where, under  all  conditions,  I  could  do  the  same  for 
myself  and  for  them,  if  I  had  the  time  and  the 
strength.  Neither  could  I  experience  false  shame  in 
an  unwonted  occupation,  no  matter  how  surprising  it 
might  be  to  people,  because,  through  not  doing  it,  I 
had  already  experienced  not  false  but  real  shame. 

And  when  I  had  reached  this  confession,  and  the 
practical  deduction  from  it,  I  was  fully  rewarded  for 
not  having  quailed  before  the  deductions  of  reason, 
and  for  following  whither  they  led  me.  On  arriving 
at  this  practical  deduction,  I  was  amazed  at  the  ease 
and  simplicity  with  which  all  the  problems  which  had 
previously  seemed  to  me  so  difficult  and  so  complicated, 
were  solved. 

To  the  question,  "What  is  it  necessary  to  do?" 
the  most  uidubitable  answer  presented  itself :  first  of 
all,  that  which  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  do  was,  to 
attend  to  my  own  samovar,  my  own  stove,  my  own 
water,  my  own  clothing ;  to  every  thing  that  I  could 


236  WHAT   TO  DO? 

do  for  m3'self.  To  the  question,  "  Will  it  not  seem 
strange  to  people  if  you  do  this?"  it  appeared  that 
this  strangeness  lasted  only  a  week,  and  after  t!ie 
lapse  of  that  week,  it  would  have  seemed  strange  had 
I  returned  to  my  former  conditions  of  life.  With 
regard  to  the  question,  "Is  it  necessary  to  organize 
this  physical  labor,  to  institute  an  association  in  the 
country,  on  my  land  ?  "  it  appeared  that  nothing  of 
the  sort  was  necessary ;  that  labor,  if  it  does  not 
aim  at  the  acquisition  of  all  possible  leisure,  and  the 
enjoyment  of  the  labor  of  others, — like  the  labor  of 
people  bent  on  accumulating  money, — but  if  it  have 
for  its  object  the  satisfaction  of  requirements,  will  itself 
be  drawn  from  the  city  to  the  country,  to  the  land, 
where  this  labor  is  the  most  fruitful  and  cheerful.  But 
it  is  not  requisite  to  institute  any  association,  because 
the  man  who  labors,  naturally  and  of  himself,  attaches 
himself  to  the  existing  association  of  laboring  men. 

To  the  question,  whether  this  labor  would  not  monop- 
olize all  my  time,  and  deprive  me  of  those  intellect- 
ual pursuits  which  I  love,  to  which  I  am  accustomed, 
and  which,  in  my  moments  of  self-conceit,  I  regard 
as  not  useless  to  others  ?  I  received  a  most  unexpected 
reply.  The  energy  of  my  intellectual  activity  increased, 
and  increased  in  exact  proportion  with  bodily  applica- 
tion, while  freeing  itself  from  every  thing  superfluous. 
It  appeared  that  by  dedicating  to  physical  toil  eight 
hours,  that  half  of  the  day  which  I  had  formerly 
passed  in  the  oppressive  state  of  a  struggle  with  ennui^ 
eight  hours  remained  to  me,  of  which  only  five  of 
intellectual  activity,  according  to  my  terms,  were  neces- 
sary to  me.  For  it  appeared,  that  if  I,  a  very  volumi- 
nous writer,  who  had  done  nothing  for  nearly  forty 
years  except  write,  and  who  had  written  three  hun- 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      237 

dred  printed  sheets  ;  — if  I  had  worked  during  all  those 
forty  years  at  ordinary  labor  with  the  working- people, 
then,  not  reckoning  winter  evenings  and  leisure  days, 
if  I  had  read  and  studied  for  five  hours  ever}'  day,  and 
had  written  a  couple  of  pages  only  on  holidays  (and  I 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  at  the  rate  of  one 
printed  sheet  a  day) ,  then  I  should  have  written  those 
three  hundred  sheets  in  fourteen  years.  The  fact  seemed 
startling  :  yet  it  is  the  most  simple  arithmetical  calcula- 
tion, which  can  be  made  by  a  seven-year-old  boy,  but 
which  I  had  not  been  able  to  make  up  to  this  time. 
There  are  twenty-four  hours  in  the  day  ;  if  we  take 
away  eight  hours,  sixteen  remain.  If  any  man  en- 
gaged in  intellectual  occupations  devote  five  hours 
every  day  to  his  occupation,  he  will  accomplish  a  fear- 
ful amount.  And  what  is  to  be  done  with  the  remain- 
ing eleven  hours? 

It  proved  that  physical  labor  not  only  does  not 
exclude  the  possibility  of  mental  activity,  but  that  it 
improves  its  quality,  and  encourages  it. 

In  answer  to  the  question,  whether  this  ph3'sical  toil 
does  not  deprive  me  of  many  innocent  pleasures  pe- 
culiar to  man,  such  as  the  enjoyment  of  the  arts,  the 
acquisition  of  learning,  intercourse  with  people,  and 
the  delights  of  life  in  general,  it  turned  out  exactly 
the  reverse :  the  more  intense  the  labor,  the  more 
nearly  it  approached  what  is  considered  the  coarsest 
agricultural  toil,  the  more  enjoyment  and  knowledge 
did  I  gain,  and  the  more  did  I  come  into  close  and 
loving  communion  with  men,  and  the  more  happmess 
did  I  derive  from  life. 

In  answer  to  the  question  (which  I  have  so  often 
heard  from  persons  not  thoroughly  sincere),  as  to  what 
result  could  flow  from  so  insignificant  a  drop  m  the  sea 


238  WHAT  TO  not 

of  sympathy  as  my  individual  physical  labor  in  the 
sea  of  labor  ingulfing  me,  1  received  also  the  most  sat- 
isfactory and  unexpected  of  answers.  It  appeared  that 
all  I  had  to  do  was  to  make  physical  labor  the  habitual 
condition  of  my  life,  and  the  majority  of  my  false,  but 
precious,  habits  and  my  demands,  when  ph3-sically  idle, 
fell  away  from  me  at  once  of  their  own  accord,  with- 
out the  slightest  exertion  on  my  part.  Not  to  mention 
the  habit  of  turning  day  into  night  and  vice  versa^  my 
habits  connected  with  my  bed,  with  my  clothing,  with 
conventional  cleanliness,  —  which  are  downright  im- 
possible and  oppressive  with  physical  labor,  —  and  ni}^ 
demands  as  to  the  quality  of  my  food,  were  entirely 
changed.  In  place  of  the  dainty,  rich,  refined,  com- 
plicated, highly-spiced  food,  to  which  I  had  formerly 
inclined,  the  most  simple  viands  became  needful  and 
most  pleasing  of  all  to  me,  — cabbage-soup,  porridge, 
black  bread,  and  tea  v  prikusku.^  So  that,  not  to 
mention  the  influence  upon  me  of  the  example  of  the 
simple  working-people,  who  are  content  with  little, 
with  whom  I  came  in  contact  in  the  course  of  my 
bodily  toil,  my  very  requirements  underwent  a  change 
in  consequence  of  my  toilsome  life  ;  so  that  my  drop 
of  physical  labor  in  the  sea  of  universal  labor  became 
larger  and  larger,  in  proportion  as  I  accustomed  my- 
self to,  and  appropriated,  the  habits  of  the  laboring 
classes ;  in  proportion,  also,  to  the  success  of  my  labor, 
m\^  demands  for  labor  from  others  grew  less  and  less, 
and  my  life  naturally,  without  exertion  or  priva- 
tions, approached  that  simple  existence  of  which  I 
could  not  even  dream  without  fulfilling  the  law  of 
labor. 

1  V  prikusku,  when  a  lump  of  sugar  is  held  in  the  teeth  instead  of  being 
put  into  the  tea. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      239 

It  proved  that  my  dearest  demands  from  life,  name- 
ly, my  demands  for  vanity,  and  diversion  from  ennui ^ 
arose  directly  from  my  idle  life.  There  was  no  place 
for  vanity,  in  connection  with  physical  labor ;  and  no 
diversions  were  needed,  since  my  time  was  pleasantly 
occupied,  and,  aft>er  my  fatigue,  simple  rest  at  tea  over 
a  book,  or  in  conversation  with  my  fellows,  was  incom- 
parably more  agreeable  than  theatres,  cards,  concerts, 
or  a  large  company,  —  all  which  things  are  needed  in 
physical  idleness,  and  which  cost  a  great  deal. 

In  answer  to  the  question.  Would  not  this  unaccus- 
tomed toil  ruin  that  health  which  is  indispensable  in 
order  to  render  service  to  the  people  possible  ?  it  ap- 
peared, in  spite  of  the  positive  assertions  of  noted 
physicians,  that  physical  exertion,  especially  at  my  age, 
might  have  the  most  injurious  consequences  (but  that 
Swedish  gymnastics,  the  massage  treatment,  and  so  on, 
and  other  expedients  intended  to  take  the  place  of  the 
natural  conditions  of  man's  life,  were  better),  that  the 
more  intense  the  toil,  the  stronger,  more  alert,  more 
cheerful,  and  more  kindly  did  I  feel.  Thus  it  un- 
doubtedly appeared,  that,  just  as  all  those  cunning 
devices  of  the  human  mind,  newspapers,  theatres, 
concerts,  visits,  balls,  cards,  journals,  romances,  are 
nothing  else  than  expedients  for  maintaining  the 
spiritual  life  of  man  outside  his  natural  conditions  of 
labor  for  others,  —  just  so  all  the  hygienic  and  medical 
devices  of  the  human  mind  for  the  preparation  of 
food,  drink,  lodging,  ventilation,  heating,  clothing, 
medicine,  water,  massage,  gymnastics,  electric,  and 
other  means  of  healing,  —  all  these  clever  devices  are 
merely  an  expedient  to  sustain  the  bodily  life  of  man 
removed  from  its  natural  conditions  of  labor.  It  turned 
out  that  all  these  devices  of  the  human  mind  for  the 


240  WHAT   TO   DO^ 

agreeable  arrangement  of  the  physical  existence  of  idle 
persons  are  precisely  analogous  to  those  artful  con- 
trivances which  people  might  invent  for  the  production 
in  vessels  hermetically  sealed,  by  means  of  mechanical 
arrangements,  of  evaporation,  and  plants,  of  the  air  best 
fitted  for  breathing,  when  all  that  is  needed  is  to  open 
the  window.  All  the  inventions  of  medicine  and  hygiene 
for  persons  of  our  sphere  are  much  the  same  as  though 
a  mechanic  should  hit  upon  the  idea  of  heating  a  steam- 
boiler  which  was  not  working,  and  should  shut  all  the 
valves  so  that  the  boiler  should  not  burst.  Only  one 
thing  is  needed,  instead  of  all  these  extremely  compli- 
cated devices  for  pleasure,  for  comfort,  and  for  medical 
and  hygienic  preparations,  intended  to  save  people  from 
their  spiritual  and  bodily  ailments,  which  swallow  up 
so  much  labor,  —  to  fulfil  the  law  of  life ;  to  do  that 
which  is  proper  not  only  to  man,  but  to  the  animal ; 
to  fire  off  the  charge  of  energy  taken  m  in  the  sliape 
of  food,  b}'  muscular  exertion  ;  to  speak  in  plain  lan- 
guage, to  earn  one's  bread.  Those  who  do  not  work 
should  not  eat,  or  they  should  earn  as  much  as  they 
have  eaten. 

And  when  I  clearly  comprehended  all  this,  it  struck 
me  as  ridiculous.  Through  a  whole  series  of  doubts 
and  searchings,  I  had  arrived,  by  a  long  course  of 
thought,  at  this  remarkable  truth :  if  a  man  has  eyes, 
it  is  that  he  may  see  with  them  ;  if  he  has  ears,  that 
he  may  hear ;  and  feet,  that  he  may  walk  ;  and  hands 
and  back,  that  he  may  labor ;  and  that  if  a  man  will 
not  employ  those  members  for  that  purpose  for  which 
they  are  intended,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  him. 

I  came  to  this  conclusion,  that,  with  us  privileged 
people,  the  same  thing  has  happened  which  happened 
with  the  horses  of  a  friend  of  mine.     His  steward, 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      241 

who  was  not  a  lover  of  horses,  nor  well  versed  in  them, 
on  receiving  his  master's  orders  to  place  the  best  horses 
in  the  stable,  selected  them  from  the  stud,  placed  them 
in  stalls,  and  fed  and  watered  them ;  but  fearing  for 
the  valuable  steeds,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
trust  them  to  any  one,  and  he  neither  rode  nor  drove 
them,  nor  did  he  even  take  them  out.  The  horses 
stood  there  until  they  were  good  for  nothing.  The 
same  thing  has  happened  with  us,  but  with  this  differ- 
ence :  that  it  was  impossible  to  deceive  the  horses  in 
any  way,  and  they  were  kept  in  bonds  to  prevent  their 
getting  out ;  but  we  are  kept  in  an  unnatural  position 
that  is  equally  injurious  to  us,  by  deceits  which  have 
entangled  us,  and  which  hold  us  like  chains. 

We  have  arranged  for  ourselves  a  life  that  is  repug- 
nant both  to  the  moral  and  the  physical  nature  of  man, 
and  all  the  powers  of  our  intelligence  we  concentrate 
upon  assuring  man  that  this  is  the  most  natural  life 
possible.  Every  thing  which  we  call  culture,  —  our 
sciences,  art,  and  the  perfection  of  the  pleasant  things 
of  life,  —  all  these  are  attempts  to  deceive  the  moral 
requirements  of  man  ;  every  thing  that  is  called  hygiene 
and  medicine,  is  an  attempt  to  deceive  the  natural 
physical  demands  of  human  nature.  But  these  deceits 
have  their  bounds,  and  we  advance  to  them.  ''  If  such 
be  the  real  human  life,  then  it  is  better  not  to  live 
at  all,"  says  the  reigning  and  extremely  fashionable 
philosophy  of  Schopenhauer  and  Hartmann.  ''  If  such 
is  life,  'tis  better  for  the  coming  generation  not  to 
live,"  say  corrupt  medical  science  and  its  newly  devised 
means  to  that  end. 

In  the  Bible,  it  is  laid  down  as  the  law  of  man  : 
"  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou  eat  bread,  and  in 
sorrow  thou  shalt  bring  forth  children;"   but  "  ?ioit$ 


242  WHAT   TO   DO? 

avons  changS  tout  ^a,"  as  Moli^re's  character  says, 
when  expressing  himself  with  regard  to  medicine,  and 
asserting  that  the  liver  was  on  the  left  side.  We  have 
changed  all  that.  Men  need  not  work  in  order  to  eat, 
and  women  need  not  bear  children. 

A  ragged  peasant  roams  the  Krapivensky  district. 
During  the  war  he  was  an  agent  for  the  purchase  of 
grain,  under  an  official  of  the  commissary  department. 
On  being  brought  in  contact  with  the  official,  and  see- 
ing his  luxurious  life,  the  peasant  lost  his  mind,  and 
thought  that  he  might  get  along  without  work,  like 
gentlemen,  and  receive  proper  support  from  the  Em- 
peror. This  peasant  now  calls  himself  ' '  the  Most 
Serene  Warrior,  Prince  Blokhin,  purveyor  of  war  sup- 
plies of  all  descriptions."  He  says  of  himself  that 
he  has  "■  passed  through  all  the  ranks,"  and  that 
when  he  shall  have  served  out  his  term  in  the  army, 
he  is  to  receive  from  the  Emperor  an  unlimited  bank 
account,  clothes,  uniforms,  horses,  equipages,  tea, 
pease  and  servants,  and  all  sorts  of  luxuries.  This 
man  is  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  many,  but  to  me  the 
significance  of  his  madness  is  terrible.  To  the  question, 
whether  he  does  not  wish  to  work,  he  always  replies 
proudly:  ''I  am  much  obliged.  The  peasants  will 
attend  to  all  that."  When  j^ou  tell  him  that  the  peas- 
ants do  not  wish  to  work,  either,  he  answers :  ''  It  is 
not  difficult  for  the  peasant." 

He  generally  talks  in  a  high-flown  style,  and  is  fond 
of  verbal  substantives.  "  Now  there  is  an  invention  of 
machinery  for  the  alleviation  of  the  peasants,"  he  says  ; 
"  there  is  no  difficulty  for  them  in  that."  When  he  is 
asked  what  he  lives  for,  he  replies,  "  To  pass  the 
time."  I  always  look  on  this  man  as  on  a  mirror. 
I  behold  in  him  myself  and  all  my  class.      To  pass 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      243 

through  all  the  ranks  (tchini)  in  order  to  live  for  the 
purpose  of  passing  the  time,  and  to  receive  an  un- 
limited bank  account,  while  the  peasants,  for  whom 
this  is  not  difficult,  because  of  the  invention  of  ma- 
chinery, do  the  whole  business,  —  this  is  the  complete 
formula  of  the  idiotic  creed  of  the  people  of  our  sphere 
in  society. 

When  we  inquire  precisely  what  we  are  to  do,  surely, 
we  ask  nothing,  but  merely  assert  —  only  not  in  such 
good  faith  as  the  Most  Serene  Prince  Blokhin,  who  has 
been  promoted  through  all  ranks,  and  lost  his  mind  — 
that  we  do  not  wish  to  do  any  thing. 

He  who  will  reflect  for  a  moment  cannot  ask  this, 
because,  on  the  one  hand,  every  thing  that  he  uses  has 
been  made,  and  is  made,  b^'  the  hands  of  men ;  and, 
on  the  other  side,  as  soon  as  a  healthy  man  has  awak- 
ened and  eaten,  the  necessity  of  working  with  feet  and 
hands  and  brain  makes  itself  felt.  In  order  to  find 
work  and  to  work,  he  need  only  not  hold  back :  only 
a  person  who  thinks  work  disgraceful  —  like  the  lady 
who  requests  her  guest  not  to  take  the  trouble  to  open 
the  door,  but  to  wait  until  she  can  call  a  man  for  this 
purpose  —  can  put  to  himself  the  question,  what  he  is 
to  do. 

The  point  does  not  lie  in  inventing  work,  — j'ou  can 
never  get  through  all  the  work  that  is  to  be  done  for 
yourself  and  for  others,  — but  the  point  lies  in  weaning 
one's  self  from  that  criminal  view  of  life  in  accordance 
with  which  I  eat  and  sleep  for  my  own  pleasure  ;  and 
in  appropriating  to  myself  that  just  and  simple  view 
with  which  the  laboring  man  grows  up  and  lives,  — that 
man  is,  first  of  all,  a  machine,  which  loads  itself  with 
food  in  order  to  sustain  itself,  and  that  it  is  therefore 
Hsgraceful,  wrong,  and  impossible  to  eat  and  not  to 


244  WHAT  TO  no? 

work  ;  that  to  eat  and  not  to  work  is  the  most  impious, 
unnatural,  and,  therefore,  dangerous  position,  in  the 
nature  of  the  sin  of  Sodom.  Only  let  this  acknowl- 
edgment be  made,  and  there  will  be  work ;  and  work 
will  alwa^'s  be  joyous  and  satisfying  to  both  spiritual 
and  bodily  requirements. 

The  matter  presented  itself  to  me  thus :  The  day  is 
divided  for  every  man,  by  food  itself,  into  four  parts, 
or  four  stints,  as  the  peasants  call  it :  (1)  before  break- 
fast;  (2)  from  breakfast  until  dinner;  (3)  from  dm- 
ner  until  four  o'clock ;  (4)  from  four  o'clock  until 
evening. 

A  man's  employment,  whatever  it  may  be  that  he 
feels  a  need  for  in  his  own  person,  is  also  divided 
into  four  categories :  (1)  the  muscular  employment  of 
power,  labor  of  the  hands,  feet,  shoulders,  back,  — 
hard  labor,  from  which  you  sweat;  (2)  the  employ- 
ment of  the  fingers  and  wrists,  the  employment  of 
artisan  skill ;  (3)  the  employment  of  the  mind  and 
imagination ;  (4)  the  employment  of  intercourse  with 
others. 

The  benefits  which  man  enjoys  are  also  divided  into 
four  categories.  Every  man  enjoys,  in  the  first  place, 
the  product  of  hard  labor, — grain,  cattle,  buildings, 
wells,  ponds,  and  so  forth ;  in  the  second  place,  the. 
results  of  artisan  toil,  —  clothes,  boots,  utensils,  and  so 
forth  ;  in  the  third  place,  the  products  of  mental  activ- 
ity, —  science,  art ;  and,  in  the  fourth  place,  estab- 
lished intercourse  between  people. 

And  it  struck  me,  that  the  best  thing  of  all  would  be 
to  arrange  the  occupations  of  the  day  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  exercise  all  four  of  man's  capacities,  and 
myself  produce  all  these  four  sorts  of  benefits  which 
men  make  use  of,  so  that  one  portion  of  the  day,  the 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      245 

first,  should  be  dedicated  to  hard  labor ;  the  second, 
to  intellectual  labor;  the  third,  to  artisan  labor;  and 
the  fourth,  to  intercourse  with  people.  It  struck  me, 
that  only  then  would  that  false  division  of  labor,  which 
exists  in  our  society,  be  abrogated,  and  that  just  divis- 
ion of  labor  established,  which  does  not  destroy  man's 
happiness. 

I,  for  example,  have  busied  myself  all  my  life  with 
intellectual  labor.  I  said  to  myself,  that  I  had  so 
divided  labor,  that  writing,  that  is  to  say,  intellectual 
labor,  is  my  special  employment,  and  the  other  matters 
which  were  necessary  to  me  I  had  left  free  (or  rele- 
gated, rather)  to  others.  But  this,  which  would  appear 
to  have  been  the  most  advantageous  arrangement  for 
intellectual  toil,  was  precisely  the  most  disadvan- 
tageous to  mental  labor,  not  to  mention  its  injustice. 

All  my  life  long,  1  have  regulated  my  whole  life, 
food,  sleep,  diversion,  in  view  of  these  hours  of  spe- 
cial labor,  and  have  done  nothing  except  this  work. 
The  result  of  this  has  been,  in  the  first  place,  that  I 
have  contracted  my  sphere  of  observations  and  knowl- 
edge, and  have  frequently  had  no  means  for  the  study 
even  of  problems  which  often  presented  themselves  in 
describing  the  life  of  the  people  (for  the  life  of  the 
common  people  is  the  every-day  problem  of  intellectual 
activity).  I  was  conscious  of  my  ignorance,  and  was 
obliged  to  obtain  instruction,  to  ask  about  things 
which  are  known  by  every  man  not  engaged  in  special 
labor.  In  the  second  place,  the  result  was,  that  I  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  sitting  down  to  write  when  I  had  no 
inward  impulse  to  write,  and  when  no  one  demanded 
from  me  writing,  as  writing,  that  is  to  say,  my  thoughts, 
but  when  my  name  was  merely  wanted  for  journalistic 
speculation.     I  tried  to  squeeze  out  of  myself  what  1 


246  WHAT   TO   DOf 

could.  Sometimes  I  could  extract  nothing  ;  sometimes 
it  was  very  wretched  stuff,  and  1  was  dissatisfied  and 
grieved.  But  now  that  I  have  learned  the  indispensa- 
bility  of  physical  labor,  both  hard  and  artisan  labor, 
the  result  is  entirely  different.  My  time  has  been 
occupied,  however  modestly,  at  least  usefully  and 
cheerfully,  and  in  a  manner  instructive  to  me.  And 
therefore  I  have  torn  myself  from  that  indubitably 
useful  and  cheerful  occupation  for  my  special  duties 
only  when  I  felt  an  inward  impulse,  and  when  I  saw  a 
demand  made  upon  me  directly  for  my  literary  work. 

And  these  demands  called  into  play  only  good 
nature,  and  therefore  the  usefulness  and  the  joy  of  my 
special  labor.  Thus  it  turned  out,  that  employment 
in  those  physical  labors  which  are  indispensable  to  me, 
as  they  are  to  every  man,  not  only  did  not  interfere 
with  my  special  activity,  but  was  an  indispensable 
condition  of  the  usefulness,  worth,  and  cheerfulness  of 
that  activity. 

The  bird  is  so  constructed,  that  it  is  indispensable 
that  it  should  fly,  walk,  peck,  combine ;  and  when  it 
does  all  this,  it  is  satisfied  and  happy,  —  then  it  is 
a  bird.  Just  so  man,  when  he  walks,  turns,  raises, 
drags,  works  with  his  fingers,  with  his  eyes,  with  his 
ears,  with  his  tongue,  with  his  brain,  —  only  then  is. 
he  satisfied,  only  then  is  he  a  man. 

A  man  who  acknowledges  his  appointment  to  labor 
will  naturally  strive  towards  that  rotation  of  labor 
which  is  peculiar  to  him,  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  in- 
ward requirements ;  and  he  can  alter  this  labor  in  no 
other  way  than  when  he  feels  within  himself  an  irre- 
sistible summons  to  some  exclusive  form  of  labor,  and 
when  the  demands  of  other  men  for  that  labor  are 
expressed. 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART.      247 

The  character  of  labor  is  such,  that  the  satisfaction 
of  all  a  man's  requirements  demands  that  same  succes- 
sion of  the  sorts  of  work  which  renders  work  not  a 
burden  but  a  joy.  Only  a  false  creed,  8a|a,  to  the 
effect  that  labor  is  a  curse,  could  have  led  men  to  rid 
themselves  of  certain  kinds  of  work  ;  i.e.,  to  the  appro- 
priation of  the  work  of  others,  demanding  the  forced 
occupation  with  special  labor  of  other  people,  which 
they  call  division  of  labor. 

We  have  only  grown  used  to  our  false  comprehen- 
sion of  the  regulation  of  labor,  because  it  seems  to  us 
that  the  shoemaker,  the  machinist,  the  writer,  or  the 
musician  will  be  better  off  if  he  gets  rid  of  the  labor 
peculiar  to  man.  Where  there  is  no  force  exercised 
over  the  labor  of  others,  or  any  false  belief  in  the  joy 
of  idleness,  not  a  single  man  will  get  rid  of  physical 
labor,  necessary  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  require- 
ments, for  the  sake  of  special  work ;  because  special 
work  is  not  a  privilege,  but  a  sacrifice  which  man  offers 
to  inward  pressure  and  to  his  brethren. 

The  shoemaker  in  the  country,  who  abandons  his 
wonted  labor  in  the  field,  which  is  so  grateful  to  him, 
and  betakes  himself  to  his  trade,  in  order  to  repair  or 
make  boots  for  his  neighbors,  always  deprives  himself 
of  the  pleasant  toil  of  the  field,  simply  because  he  likes 
to  make  boots,  because  he  knows  that  no  one  else  can 
do  it  so  well  as  he,  and  that  people  will  be  grateful 
to  him  for  it ;  but  the  desire  cannot  occur  to  him,  to 
deprive  himself,  for  the  whole  period  of  his  life,  of  the 
cheering  rotation  of  labor. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  starosta  [village  elder],  the 
machinist,  the  writer,  the  learned  man.  To  us,  with 
our  corrupt  conception  of  things,  it  seems,  that  if  a 
steward  has  been  relegated  to  the  position  of  a  peasant 


248  WHAT  TO  not 

by  his  master,  or  if  a  minister  has  been  sent  to  the 
colonies,  he  has  been  chastised,  he  has  been  ill-treated. 
But  in  reality  a  benefit  has  been  conferred  on  him  ; 
that  is  to  say,  his  special,  hard  labor  has  been  changed 
into  a  cheerful  rotation  of  labor.  In  a  naturally  con- 
stituted society,  this  is  quite  otherwise.  I  know  of 
one  community  where  the  people  supported  themselves. 
One  of  the  members  of  this  society  was  better  educated 
than  the  rest;  and  they  called  upon  him  to  read,  so 
that  he  was  obliged  to  prepare  himself  during  the  day, 
in  order  that  he  might  read  in  the  evening.  This  he 
did  gladly,  feeling  that  he  was  useful  to  others,  and 
that  he  was  performing  a  good  deed.  But  he  grew 
weary  of  exclusively  intellectual  work,  and  his  health 
suffered  from  it.  The  members  of  the  community  took 
pity  on  him,  and  requested  him  to  go  to  work  in  the 
fields. 

For  men  who  regard  labor  as  the  substance  and  the 
joy  of  life,  the  basis,  the  foundation  of  life  will  always 
be  the  struggle  with  nature,  —  labor  both  agricultural 
and  mechanical,  and  intellectual,  and  the  establishment 
of  communion  between  men.  Departure  from  one  or 
from  many  of  these  varieties  of  labor,  and  the  adoption 
of  special  labor,  will  then  onlj^  occur  when  the  man 
possessed  of  a  special  branch,  and  loving  this  work,' 
and  knowing  that  he  can  perform  it  better  than  others, 
sacrifices  his  own  profit  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  di- 
rect demands  made  upon  him.  Only  on  condition  of 
such  a  view  of  labor,  and  of  the  natural  division  of 
labor  arising  from  it,  is  that  curse  which  is  laid  upon 
our  idea  of  labor  abrogated,  and  does  every  sort  of 
work  become  always  a  joy  ;  because  a  man  will  either 
perform  that  labor  which  is  undoubtedly  useful  and 
joyous,  and  not  dull,  or  he  will  possess  the  conscious- 


ON  SIGNIFICANCE   OF  SCIENCE  AND   ART.      249 

ness  of  self-abnegation  in  the  fulfilment  of  more  difH- 
ciilt  and  restricted  toil,  which  he  exercises  for  the  good 
of  others. 

But  the  division  of  labor  is  more  profitable.  More 
profitable  for  whom  ?  It  is  more  profitable  in  making 
the  greatest  possible  quantity  of  calico  and  boots  in 
the  shortest  possible  time.  But  who  will  make  these 
boots  and  this  calico?  There  are  people  who,  for 
whole  generations,  make  only  the  heads  of  pins.  Then 
how  can  this  be  more  profitable  for  men  ?  If  the  point 
lies  in  manufacturing  as  much  calico  and  as  man}-  pins 
as  possible,  then  this  is  so.  But  the  point  concerns 
men  and  their  welfare.  And  the  welfare  of  men  lies  in 
life.  And  life  is  work.  How,  then,  can  the  necessity 
for  burdensome,  oppressive  toil  be  more  profitable  for 
people?  For  all  men,  that  one  thing  is  more  profitable 
which  I  desire  for  myself,  —  the  utmost  well-being,  and 
the  gratification  of  all  those  requirements,  both  bodily 
and  spiritual,  of  the  conscience  and  of  the  reason,  which 
are  imposed  upon  me.  And  in  my  own  case  I  have 
found,  that  for  my  own  welfare,  and  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  these  needs  of  mine,  all  that  I  require  is  to  cure 
myself  of  that  foil}'  in  which  I  had  been  living,  in 
company  with  the  Krapivensky  madman,  and  which 
consisted  in  presupposing  that  some  people  need  not 
work,  and  that  certain  other  people  should  direct  all 
this,  and  that  I  should  therefore  do  only  that  which  is 
natural  to  man,  i.e.,  labor  for  the  satisfaction  of  their 
requirements  ;  and,  having  discovered  this,  I  convinced 
myself  that  labor  for  the  satisfaction  of  one's  own 
needs  falls  of  itself  into  various  kinds  of  labor,  each 
one  of  which  possesses  its  own  charm,  and  which  not 
onh'  do  not  constitute  a  burden,  but  which  serve  as  a 
respite  to  one  another.     I  have  made  a  rough  division 


250  WHAT  TO  DO? 

of  this  lator  (not  insisting  on  the  justice  of  this  arrange- 
ment), in  accordance  with  my  own  needs  in  life,  into 
four  parts,  corres^Donding  to  the  four  stints  of  labor  of 
which  the  da}'  is  composed ;  and  I  seek  in  this  manner 
to  satisfy  my  requirements. 

These,  then,  are  the  answers  which  I  have  found  for 
m3'self  to  the  question,  "  What  is  to  be  done?  " 

First,  Not  to  lie  to  myself,  however  far  removed  my 
path  in  life  may  be  from  the  true  path  which  my  reason 
discloses  to  me. 

Second,  To  renounce  my  consciousness  of  my  own 
righteousness,  my  superiority  especially  over  other 
people  ;  and  to  acknowledge  my  guilt. 

Third,  To  comply  with  that  eternal  and  indubitable 
law  of  humanity,  —  the  labor  of  my  whole  being,  feel- 
ing no  shame  at  any  sort  of  work ;  to  contend  with 
nature  for  the  maintenance  of  my  own  life  and  the 
lives  of  others. 


ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY. 


I  CONCLUDED,  after  having  said  every  thing  that  con- 
cerned myself;  but  I  cannot  refrain,  from  a  desire  to 
say  something  more  which  concerns  everybody,  from 
verifying  the  deductions  which  I  have  drawn,  by  com- 
parisons. I  wish  to  say  why  it  seems  to  me  that  a 
very  large  number  of  our  social  class  ought  to  come  to 
the  same  thing  to  which  I  have  come  ;  and  also  to  state 
what  will  be  the  result  if  a  number  of  people  should 
come  to  the  same  conclusion. 

I  think  that  many  will  come  to  the  point  which  I 
have  attained :  because  if  the  people  of  our  sphere,  of 
our  caste,  will  only  take  a  serious  look  at  themselves, 
then  young  persons,  who  are  in  search  of  personal 
happiness,  will  stand  aghast  at  the  ever-increasing 
wretchedness  of  their  life,  which  is  plainly  leading 
them  to  destruction ;  conscientious  people  will  be 
shocked  at  the  cruelty  and  the  illegality  of  their  life ; 
and  timid  people  will  be  terrified  by  the  danger  of  their 
mode  of  life. 

The  Wretchedyiess  of  our  Life :  —  However  much  we 
rich  people  may  reform,  however  much  we  may  bolster 
up  this  delusive  life  of  ours  with  the  aid  of  our  science 
and  art,  this  life  will  become,  with  every  year,  both 
weaker  and  more  diseased  ;  with  every  year  the  number 
of  suicides,  and  the  refusals  to  bear  children,  will  in- 

251 


252  WHAT  TO  DO? 

crease ;  with  every  year  we  shall  feel  the  growing 
saduess  of  our  life  ;  with  every  generation,  the  new 
generations  of  people  of  this  sphere  of  society  will 
become  more  puny. 

It  is  obvious  that  in  this  path  of  the  augmentation 
of  the  comforts  and  the  pleasures  of  life,  in  the  path  of 
every  sort  of  cure,  and  of  artificial  preparations  for 
the  improvements  of  the  sight,  the  hearing,  the  appetite, 
false  teeth,  false  hair,  respiration^  massage,  and  so  on, 
there  can  be  no  salvation.  That  people  who  do  not 
make  use  of  these  perfected  preparations  are  stronger 
and  healthier,  has  become  such  a  truism,  that  advertise- 
ments are  printed  in  the  newspapers  of  stomach-pow- 
ders for  the  wealthy,  under  the  heading,  "Blessings 
for  the  poor,"  ^  in  which  it  is  stated  that  only  the  poor 
are  possessed  of  proper  digestive  powers,  and  that  the 
rich  require  assistance,  and,  among  other  jarious  sorts 
of  assistance,  these  powders.  It  is  impossible  to  set 
the  matter  right  by  any  diversions,  comforts,  and  pow- 
ders, whatever ;  only  a  change  of  life  can  rectify  it. 

TJie  Inconsistency  of  our  Life  imth  our  Conscience :  — 
However  we  may  seek  to  justify  our  betrayal  of  hu- 
manity to  ourselves,  all  our  justifications  will  crumble 
into  dust  in  the  presence  of  the  evidence.  All  around 
us,  people  are  dying  of  excessive  labor  and  of  priva- 
tion ;  we  ruin  the  labor  of  others,  the  food  and  cloth- 
ing which  are  indispensable  to  them,  merely  with  the 
object  of  procuring  diversion  and  variety  for  our  weari- 
some lives.  And,  therefore,  the  conscience  of  a  man 
of  our  circle,  if  even  a  spark  of  it  be  left  in^  him, 
cannot  be  lulled  to  sleep,  and  it  poisons  all  these  com- 
forts and  those  pleasures  of  life  which  our  brethren, 
suffering  and  perishing  in  their  toil,  procure  for  us. 

1  In  Euglish  in  tbe  text. 


ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY.  253 

But  not  only  does  every  conscientious  man  feel  this 
himself,  —  he  would  be  glad  to  forget  it,  but  this  he 
cannot  do. 

The  new,  ephemeral  justifications  of  science  for 
science,  of  art  for  art,  do  not  exclude  the  light  of  a 
simple,  healthy  judgment.  The  conscience  of  man 
cannot  be  quieted  by  fresh  devices  ;  and  it  can  only  be 
calmed  by  a  change  of  life,  for  which  and  in  which  no 
justification  will  be  required. 

Two  causes  prove  to  the  people  of  the  wealthy  classes 
the  necessity  for  a  change  of  life :  the  requirements 
of  their  individual  welfare,  and  of  the  welfare  of 
those  most  nearly  connected  with  them,  which  cannot 
be  satisfied  in  the  path  iu  which  they  now  stand ;  and 
the  necessity  of  satisfymg  the  voice  of  conscience,  the 
impossibility  of  accomplishing  which  is  obvious  in 
their  present  course.  These  causes,  taken  together, 
should  lead  people  of  the  wealthy  classes  to  alter  their 
mode  of  life,  to  such  a  change  as  shall  satisfy  their 
well-being  and  their  conscience. 

And  there  is  only  one  such  change  possible  :  they 
must  cease  to  deceive,  they  must  repent,  they  must 
acknowledge  that  labor  is  not  a  curse,  but  the  glad 
business  of  life.  "But  what  will  be  the  result  if  I  do 
toil  for  ten,  or  eight,  or  five  hours  at  physical  work, 
which  thousands  of  peasants  will  gladly  perform  for 
the  money  which  I  possess?  **  people  say  to  this. 

The  first,  simplest,  and  indubitable  result  will  be, 
that  you  will  become  a  more  cheerful,  a  healthier,  a 
more  alert,  and  a  better  man,  and  that  you  will  learn 
to  know  the  real  life,  from  which  you  have  hidden 
yourself,  or  which  has  been  hidden  from  you. 

The  second  result  will  be,  that,  if  you  possess  a  con- 
science, it  will  not  only  cease  to  s.uffer  as  it  now  suffers 


254  WHAT  TO  DO? 

when  it  gazes  upon  the  toil  of  others,  the  significance 
of  which  we,  through  ignorance,  either  always  exag- 
gerate or  depreciate,  but  you  will  constantly  experience 
a  glad  consciousness  that,  with  every  day,  you  are 
doing  more  and  more  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  your 
conscience,  and  3'ou  will  escape  from  that  fearful  posi- 
ti(m  of  such  an  accumulation  of  evil  heaped  upon  your 
life  that  there  exists  no  possibility  of  doing  good  to 
people  ;  you  will  experience  the  joy  of  living  in  free- 
dom, with  the  possibility  of  good ;  you  will  break  a 
window,  —  an  opening  into  the  domain  of  the  moral 
world  which  has  been  closed  to  you. 

*^But  this  is  absurd,"  people  usually  sa}^  to  you, 
*'  for  people  of  our  sphere,  with  profound  problems 
standing  before  us,  —  problems  philosophical,  scien- 
tific, artistic,  ecclesiastical,  and  social.  It  would  be 
absurd  for  us  ministers,  senators,  academicians,  pro- 
fessors, artists,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  whose  time  is 
so  prized  by  people,  to  waste  our  time  on  any  thing 
of  that  sort,  would  it  not?  —  on  the  cleaning  of  our 
boots,  the  washing  of  our  shirts,  in  hoeing,  in  planting 
potatoes,  or  in  feeding  our  chickens  and  our  cows,  and 
so  on ;  in  those  things  which  are  gladly  done  for  us, 
not  only  by  our  porter  or  our  cook,  but  by  thousands 
of  people  who  value  our  time  ?  " 

But  why  should  we  dress  ourselves,  wash,  and  comb 
our  hair?  why  should  we  hand  chairs  to  ladies,  to 
guests?  why  should  we  open  and  shut  doors,  hand 
ladies  into  carriages,  and  do  a  hundred  other  things 
which  serfs  formerly  did  for  us?  Because  we  think 
that  it  is  necessary  so  to  do ;  that  human  dignity  de- 
mands it;  that  it  is  the  dut}^,  the  obligation,  of  man. 

And  the  same  is  the  case  with  physical  labor.  The 
dignity  of  man,  his  sacred  duty  and  obligation,  con- 


ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY.  255 

sists  in  using  the  hands  and  feet  which  have  been  given 
to  hira,  for  that  for  which  they  were  given  to  him,  and 
that  which  consumes  food  on  the  labor  which  produces 
that  food ;  and  that  they  should  be  used,  not  on  that 
which  shall  cause  them  to  pine  away,  not  as  objects  to 
wash  and  clean,  and  merely  for  the  purpose  of  stuffing 
into  one's  mouth  food,  drink,  and  cigarettes.  This  is 
the  significance  that  physical  labor  possesses  for  man 
in  every  community  ;  but  in  our  community,  where  the 
avoidance  of  this  law  of  labor  has  occasioned  the  un- 
happiness  of  a  whole  class  of  people,  employment  in 
physical  labor  acquires  still  another  significance,  —  the 
significance  of  a  sermon,  and  of  an  occupation  which  re- 
moves a  terrible  misfortune  that  is  threatening  mankind. 
To  say  that  physical  labor  is  an  insignificant  occu- 
pation for  a  man  of  education,  is  equivalent  to  saying, 
m  connection  with  the  erection  of  a  temple:  "  What 
does  it  matter  whether  one  stone  is  laid  accurately  in 
its  place?"  Surely,  it  is  precisely  under  conditions  of 
modesty,  simplicity,  and  imperceptibleness,  that  every 
magnificent  thing  is  accomplished ;  it  is  impossible  to 
plough,  to  build,  to  pasture  cattle,  or  even  to  think, 
amid  glare,  thunder,  and  illumination.  Grand  and 
genuine  deeds  are  always  simple  and  modest.  And 
such  is  the  grandest  of  all  deeds  which  we  have  to 
deal  with,  —  the  reconciliation  of  those  fearful  contra- 
dictions amid  which  we  are  living.  And  the  deeds 
which  will  reconcile  these  contradictions  are  those 
modest,  imperceptible,  apparently  ridiculous  ones,  the 
serving  one's  self,  physical  labor  for  one's  self,  and, 
if  possible,  for  others  also,  which  we  rich  people  must 
do,  if  we  understand  the  wretchedness,  the  unscrupu- 
lousness,  and  the  danger  of  the  position  into  which  we 
have  drifted. 


256  WHAT  TO  DO? 

What  will  be  the  result  if  I,  or  some  other  man, 
or  a  handful  of  men,  do  not  despise  physical  labor,  but 
regard  it  as  indispensable  to  our  happiness  and  to 
the  appeasement  of  our  conscience  ?  This  will  be  the 
result,  that  there  will  be  one  man,  two  men,  or  a  hand- 
ful of  men,  who,  coming  into  conflict  with  no  one, 
without  governmental  or  revolutionary  violence,  will 
decide  for  ourselves  the  terrible  question  which  stands 
before  all  the  world,  and  which  sets  people  at  variance, 
and  that  we  shall  settle  it  in  such  wise  that  life  will 
be  better  to  them,  that  their  conscience  will  be  more 
at  peace,  and  that  they  will  have  nothing  to  fear ;  the 
result  will  be,  that  other  people  will  see  that  the  happi- 
ness which  they  are  seeking  everywhere,  lies  there 
around  them ;  .that  the  apparently  unreconcilable  con- 
tradictions of  conscience  and  of  the  constitution  of 
this  world  will  be  reconciled  in  the  easiest  and  most 
joyful  manner ;  and  that,  instead  of  fearing  the  people 
who  surround  us,  it  will  become  necessary  for  us  to 
draw  near  to  them  and  to  love  them. 

The  apparently  insoluble  economical  and  social 
problem  is  merely  the  problem  of  Kriloff's  casket.^ 
The  casket  will  simply  open.  And  it  will  not  open, 
so  long  as  people  do  not  do  simply  that  first  and  simple 
thing  —  open  it. 

A  man  sets  up  what  he  imagines  to  be  his  own 
peculiar  library,  his  own  private  picture-gallery,  his 
own  apartments  and  clothing,  he  accumulates  his  own 
money  in  order  therewith  to  purchase  every  thing  that 
he  needs ;  and  the  end  of  it  all  is,  that  engaged  with 
this  fancied  property  of  his,  as  though  it  were  real,  he 
utterly  loses  his  sense  of  that  which  actually  consti-' 

*  An  excellent  translation  of  Kriloff's  Fables,  by  Mr.  W.  R.  S.  Ralston,  is 
publislied  iu  Loudon. 


ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY.  257 

tutes  his  property,  on  which  he  can  really  labor,  which 
can  really  serve  him,  and  which  will  always  remain  in 
his  power,  and  of  that  which  is  not  and  cannot  be  his 
own  property,  whatever  he  may  call  it,  and  which  can- 
not serve  as  the  object  of  his  occupation. 

Words  alwa3S  possess  a  clear  significance  until  we 
deliberately  attribute  to  them  a  false  sense. 

What  does  property  signify? 

Property  signifies  that  which  has  been  given  to  me, 
which  belongs  to  me  exclusively ;  that  with  which  I 
can  always  do  any  thing  I  like ;  that  which  no  one  can 
take  away  from  me ;  that  which  will  remain  mine  to 
the  end  of  my  life,  and  precisely  that  which  1  am 
bound  to  use,  increase,  and  improve.  Now,  there 
exists  but  one  such  piece  of  property  for  any  man,  — 
himself. 

Hence  it  results  that  half  a  score  of  men  may  till  the 
soil,  hew  wood,  and  make  shoes,  not  from  necessity, 
but  in  consequence  of  an  acknowledgment  of  the  fact 
that  man  should  work,  and  that  the  more  he  works  the 
better  it  will  be  for  him.  It  results,  that  half  a  score 
of  men,  —  or  even  one  man,  may  demonstrate  to  peo- 
ple, both  by  his  confession  and  by  his  actions,  that  the 
terrible  evil  from  which  they  are  suffering  is  not  a  law 
of  fate,  the  will  of  God,  or  any  historical  necessity  ; 
but  that  it  is  merely  a  superstition,  which  is  not  in  the 
least  powerful  or  terrible,  but  weak  and  insignificant, 
in  which  we  must  simply  cease  to  believe,  as  in  idols,  in 
order  to  rid  ourselves  of  it,  and  in  order  to  rend  it  like 
a  paltry  spider's  web.  Men  who  will  labor  to  fulfil  the 
glad  law  of  their  existence,  that  is  to  say,  those  who 
■  work  in  order  to  fulfil  the  law  of  toil,  will  rid  them- 
selves of  that  frightful  superstition  of  property  for 
themselves. 


258  WHAT  TO   DO? 

If  the  life  of  a  man  is  filled  with  toil,  and  if  he 
knows  the  delights  of  rest,  he  requires  no  chambers, 
furniture,  and  rich  and  varied  clothing ;  he  requires 
less  costly  food ;  he  needs  no  means  of  locomotion,  or 
of  diversion.  But  the  principal  thing  is,  that  the  man 
who  regards  labor  as  the  business  and  the  joy  of  his 
life  will  not  seek  that  relief  from  his  labor  which  the 
labors  of  others  might  afford  him.  The  man  who 
regards  life  as  a  matter  of  labor  will  propose  to  him- 
self as  his  object,  in  proportion  as  he  acquires  under- 
standing, skill,  and  endurance,  greater  and  greater 
toil,  which  shall  constantl}'  fill  his  life  to  a  greater  and 
greater  degree.  For  such  a  man,  who  sees  the  mean- 
ing of  his  life  in  work  itself,  and  not  in  its  results,  for 
the  acquisition  of  property,  there  can  be  no  question  as 
to  the  implements  of  labor.  Although  such  a  man  will 
always  select  the  most  suitable  implements,  that  man 
will  receive  the  same  satisfaction  from  work  and  rest, 
when  he  employs  the  most  unsuitable  implements.  If 
there  be  a  steam-plough,  he  will  use  it ;  if  there  is  none, 
he  will  till  the  soil  with  a  horse-plough,  and,  if  there  is 
none,  with  a  primitive  curved  bit  of  wood  shod  with 
iron,  or  he  will  use  a  rake ;  and,  under  all  conditions, 
he  will  equally  attain  his  object.  He  will  pass  his  life 
in  work  that  is  useful  to  men,  and  he  will  therefore, 
win  complete  satisfaction. 

And  the  position  of  such  a  man,  both  in  his  external 
and  internal  conditions,  will  be  more  happy  than  that 
of  the  man  who  devotes  his  life  to  the  acquisition  of 
property.  Such  a  man  will  never  suffer  need  in  his 
outward  circumstances,  because  people,  perceiving  his 
desire  to  work,  will  always  try  to  provide  him  with  the 
most  productive  work,  as  they  proportion  a  mill  to  the 
water-power.     And  they  will  render  his  material  exist- 


ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY.  259 

ence  free  from  care,  which  they  will  not  do  for  people 
who  are  striving  to  acquire  property.  And  freedom 
from  anxiety  in  his  material  conditions  is  all  that  a 
man  needs.  Such  a  man  will  always  be  happier  in  his 
internal  conditions,  than  the  one  who  seeks  wealth, 
because  the  first  will  never  gain  that  which  he  is  striv- 
ing for,  while  the  latter  always  will,  in  proportion  to 
his  powers.  The  feeble,  the  aged,  the  dying,  accord- 
ing to  the  proverb,  ''With  the  written  absolution  in 
his  hands,"  will  receive  full  satisfaction,  and  the  love 
and  sympathy  of  men. 

What,  then,  will  be  the  outcome  of  a  few  eccentric 
individuals,  or  madmen,  tilling  the  soil,  making  shoes, 
and  so  on,  instead  of  smoking  cigarettes,  playing  whist, 
and  roaming  about  everywhere  to  relieve  their  tedium, 
during  the  space  of  the  ten  leisure  hours  a  day  which 
every  intellectual  worker  enjoys?  This  will  be  the 
outcome :  that  these  madmen  will  show  in  action,  that 
that  imaginary  property  for  which  men  suffer,  and  for 
which  they  torment  themselves  and  others,  is  not  neces- 
sary for  happiness  ;  that  it  is  oppressive,  and  that  it  is 
mere  superstition ;  that  property,  true  property,  con- 
sists only  in  one's  own  head  and  hands ;  and  that,  in 
order  to  actually  exploit  this  real  property  with  profit 
and  pleasure,  it  is  necessary  to  reject  the  false  concep- 
tion of  property  outside  one's  own  body,  upon  which 
we  expend  the  best  efforts  of  our  lives.  The  outcome 
is,  that  these  men  will  show,  that  only  when  a  man 
ceases  to  believe  in  imaginary  property,  only  when  he 
brings  into  pla}^  his  real  property,  his  capacities,  his 
body,  so  that  they  will  yield  him  fruit  a  hundred-fold, 
and  happiness  of  which  we  have  no  idea,  — only  then 
will  he  be  so  strong,  useful,  and  good  a  man,  that, 
wherever  you  may  fling  him,  he  will  always  land  on 


260  WHAT  TO  DOr 

his  feet;  that  he  will  everywhere  and  always  be  a 
brother  to  everybody ;  that  he  will  be  intelligible  to 
everybody-,  and  necessary,  and  good.  And  men  look- 
ing on  one,  on  ten  such  madmen,  will  understand  what 
they  must  all  do  in  order  to  loose  that  terrible  knot  in 
which  the  superstition  regarding  property  has  entan- 
gled them,  in  order  to  free  themselves  from  the  unfor- 
tunate position  in  which  they  are  all  now  groaning  with 
one  voice,  not  knowing  where  to  find  an  issue  from  it. 
But  what  can  one  man  do  amid  a  throng  which 
does  not  agree  with  him?  There  is  no  argument  which 
could  more  clearly  demonstrate  the  terror  of  those  who 
make  use  of  it  than  this.  The  burlaki  ^  drag  their  bark 
against  the  current.  There  cannot  be  found  a  burlak 
so  stupid  that  he  will  refuse  to  pull  away  at  his 
towing-rope  because  he  alone  is  not  able  to  drag  the 
bark  against  the  current.  He  who,  in  addition  to  his 
rights  to  an  animal  life,  to  eat  and  sleep,  recognizes 
any  sort  of  human  obligation,  knows  very  well  in 
what  that  human  obligation  lies,  just  as  the  boatman 
knows  it  when  the  tow-rope  is  attached  to  him.  The 
boatman  knows  very  well  that  all  he  has  to  do  is  to 
pull  at  the  rope,  and  proceed  in  the  given  direction. 
He  will  seek  what  he  is  to  do,  and  how  he  is  to  do  it, 
only  when  the  tow-rope  is  removed  from  him.  And* 
as  it  it  is  with  these  boatmen  and  with  all  people  who 
perform  ordinary  work,  so  it  is  with  the  affairs  of  all 
humanity.  All  that  each  man  needs  is  not  to  remove 
the  tow-rope,  but  to  pull  away  on  it  in  the  direction 
which  his  master  orders.  And,  for  this  purpose,  one 
sort  of  reason  is  bestowed  on  all  men,  in  order  that 
the  direction  may  be  always  the  same.  And  this 
direction  has  obviously  been  so  plainly  indicated,  that 

1  Burlak,  pi.  burlaki,  is  a  boatman  on  the  River  Volga. 


ON   LABOR  AND   LUXURY.  261 

both  in  the  life  of  all  the  people  about  us,  and  in  the 
couscience  of  each  individual  man,  only  he  who  does 
not  wish  to  work  can  say  that  he  does  not  see  it. 
Then,  what  is  the  outcome  of  this? 

This  :  that  one,  perhaps  two  men,  will  pull ;  a  third 
will  look  on,  and  will  join  them  ;  and  in  this  manner 
the  best  people  will  unite  until  the  affair  begins  to 
start,  and  make  progress,  as  though  itself  inspiring 
and  bidding  thereto  even  those  who  do  not  understand 
what  is  being  done,  and  why  it  is  being  done.  First, 
to  the  contingent  of  men  who  are  consciously  laboring 
in  order  to  comply  with  the  law  of  God,  there  will  be 
added  the  people  who  only  half  understand  and  who 
only  half  confess  the  faith  ;  then  a  still  greater  number 
of  people  who  admit  the  same  doctrine  will  join  them, 
merely  on  the  faith  of  the  originators ;  and  finally  the 
majority  of  mankind  will  recognize  this,  and  then  it 
will  come  to  pass,  that  men  will  cease  to  ruin  them- 
selves, and  will  find  happiness. 

This  will  happen,  —  and  it  will  be  very  speedily,  — 
when  people  of  our  set,  and  after  them  a  vast  major- 
ity, shall  cease  to  think  it  disgraceful  to  pay  visits  in 
untanned  boots,  and  not  disgraceful  to  walk  in  over- 
shoes past  people  who  have  no  shoes  at  all ;  that  it  is 
disgraceful  not  to  understand  French,  and  not  disgrace- 
ful to  eat  bread  and  not  to  know  how  to  set  it ;  that 
it  is  disgraceful  not  to  have  a  starched  shirt  and  clean 
clothes,  and  not  disgraceful  to  go  about  in  clean  gar- 
ments thereby  showing  one's  idleness  ;  that  it  is  dis- 
graceful to  have  dirty  hands,  and  not  disgraceful  not 
to  have  hands  with  callouses. 

All  this  will  come  to  pass  when  the  sense  of  the 
community  shall  demand  it.  But  the  sense  of  the  com- 
munity will  demand  this  when  those  delusions  in  the 


262  WHAT  TO   DOt 

imagination  of  men,  which  have  concealed  the  truth  from 
thtMn,  shall  have  been  abolished.  Within  my  own  recol- 
lection, great  changes  have  taken  place  in  this  respect. 
And  these  changes  have  taken  place  only  because  the 
general  opinion  has  undergone  an  alteration.  Within 
my  memory,  it  has  come  to  pass,  that  whereas  it  used 
to  be  disgraceful  for  wealthy  people  not  to  drive  out 
with  four  horses  and  two  footmen,  and  not  to  keep  a 
valet  or  a  maid  to  dress  them,  wash  them,  put  on  their 
shoes,  and  so  forth;  it  has  now  suddenly  become  dis- 
creditable for  one  not  to  put  on  one's  own  clothes 
and  shoes  for  one's  self,  and  to  drive  with  footmen. 
Public  opinion  has  effected  all  these  changes.  Are  not 
the  changes  which  public  opinion  is  now  preparing 
clear  ? 

All  that  was  necessary  five  and  twenty  years  ago 
was  to  abolish  the  delusion  which  justified  the  right  of 
serfdom,  and  public  opinion  as  to  what  was  praise- 
worthy and  what  was  discreditable  changed,  and  life 
changed  also.  All  that  is  now  requisite  is  to  annihi- 
late the  delusion  which  justifies  the  power  of  money 
over  men,  and  public  opinion  will  undergo  a  change 
as  to  what  is  creditable  and  what  is  disgraceful,  and 
life  will  be  changed  also ;  and  the  annihilation  of  the 
delusion,  of  the  justification  of  the  moneyed  power, ' 
and  the  change  in  public  opinion  in  this  respect,  will 
be  promptly  accomplished.  This  delusion  is  already 
flickering,  and  the  truth  will  very  shortly  be  disclosed. 
All  that  is  required  is  to  gaze  steadfastly,  in  order  to 
perceive  clearly  that  change  in  public  opinion  which 
has  already  taken  place,  and  which  is  simply  not 
recognized,  not  fitted  with  a  word.  The  educated 
man  of  our  day  has  but  to  reflect  ever  so  little  on  what 
will  be  the  outcome  of  those  views  of  the  world  which 


ON  LABOR  AND  LUXURY.  2G3 

he  professes,  in  order  to  convince  himself  that  the  esti- 
mate of  good  and  bad,  by  which,  by  virtue  of  his 
inertia,  he  is  guided  in  life,  directly  contradict  his  views 
of  the  world. 

All  that  the  man  of  our  century  has  to  do  is  to  break 
away  for  a  moment  from  the  life  which  runs  on  by  force 
of  inertia,  to  survey  it  from  the  one  side,  and  subject 
it  to  that  same  standard  which  arises  from  his  whole 
view  of  the  world,  in  order  to  be  horrified  at  the  defi- 
nition of  his  whole  life,  which  follows  from  his  views 
of  the  world.  Let  us  take,  for  instance,  a  young  man 
(the  energy  of  life  is  greater  in  the  young,  and  self- 
consciousness  is  more  obscured).  Let  us  take,  for 
instance,  a  3'oung  man  belonging  to  the  wealthy  classes, 
whatever  his  tendencies  may  chance  to  be. 

Every  good  young  man  considers  it  disgraceful  not 
to  help  an  old  man,  a  child,  or  a  woman  ;  he  thinks, 
in  a  general  way,  that  it  is  a  shame  to  subject  the  life 
or  health  of  another  person  to  danger,  or  to  shun  it 
himself.  Every  one  considers  that  shameful  and  brutal 
which  Schuyler  relates  of  the  Kirghiz  in  times  of  tem- 
pest,—  to  send  out  the  women  and  the  aged  females 
to  hold  fast  the  corners  of  the  kihitka  [tent]  during  the 
storm,  while  they  themselves  continue  to  sit  within  the 
tent,  over  their  A;umis  [fermented  mare's-milk].  Every 
one  thinks  it  shameful  to  make  a  weak  man  work  for 
one  ;  that  it  is  still  more  disgraceful  in  time  of  dan- 
ger, —  on  a  burning  ship,  for  example,  —  being  strong, 
to  be  the  first  to  seat  one's  self  in  the  lifeboat,  —  to 
thrust  aside  the  weak  and  leave  them  in  danger,  and 
so  on. 

All  men  regard  this  as  disgraceful,  and  would  not 
do  it  upon  any  account,  in  certain  exceptional  circum- 
stances ;  but  in  every-day  life,  the  very  same  actions, 


264  WHAT  TO  DO? 

and  others  still  worse,  are  concealed  from  them  by 
delusions,  and  they  perpetrate  them  incessantly.  The 
establishment  of  this  new  view  of  life  is  the  business 
of  public  opinion.  Public  opinion,  supporting  such  a 
view,  will  speedily  be  formed. 

Women  form  public  opinion,  and  women  are  espe- 
ciall}^  powerful  in  our  day. 


TO  WOMEN. 


As  stated  in  the  Bible,  a  law  was  given  to  the  man 
and  the  woman,  —  to  the  man,  the  law  of  labor ;  to  the 
woman,  the  law  of  bearing  children.  Although  we, 
with  our  science,  avons  change  tout  ja,  the  law  for  the 
man,  as  for  woman,  remains  as  unalterable  as  the  liver 
in  its  place,  and  departure  from  it  is  equally  punished 
with  inevitable  death.  The  only  difference  lies  in  this, 
that  departure  from  the  law,  in  the  case  of  the  man,  is 
-tpunished  so  immediately  in  the  future,  that  it  may  be 
designated  as  present  punishment ;  but  departure  from 
the  law,  in  the  case  of  the  woman,  receives  its  chastise- 
ment in  a  more  distant  future. 

The  general  departure  of  all  men  from  the  law  ex- 
terminates people  immediately ;  the  departure  from  it 
of  all  women  annihilates  it  in  the  succeeding  genera- 
tion. But  the  evasion  by  some  men  and  some  women 
does  not  exterminate  the  human  race,  and  only  deprives 
those  who  evade  it  of  the  rational  nature  of  man. 
The  departure  of  men  from  this  law  began  long  ago, 
among  those  classes  who  were  in  a  position  to  subject 
others,  and,  constantly  spreading,  it  has  continued 
down  to  our  own  times ;  and  in  our  own  day  it  has 
reached  foil}',  the  ideal  consisting  in  evasion  of  the 
law, — the  ideal  expressed  by  Prince  Blokhin,  and 
shared  in  by  Renan  and  by  the  whole  cultivated  world : 


266  WHAT  TO  DO? 

''  Machines  will  work,  and  people  will  be  bundles  of 
nerves  devoted  to  enjoyment." 

There  was  hardly  any  departure  from  the  law  on  the 
part  of  women.  It  was  expressed  only  in  prostitution, 
and  in  the  refusal  to  bear  children  —  in  private  cases. 
The  women  belonging  to  the  wealthy  classes  fulfilled 
their  law,  while  the  men  did  not  compl}^  with  theirs  ; 
and  therefore  the  women  became  stronger,  and  contin- 
ued to  rule,  and  must  rule,  over  men  who  have  evaded 
the  law,  and  who  have,  therefore,  lost  their  senses.  It 
is  generally  stated  that  woman  (the  woman  of  Paris  in 
particular  is  childless)  has  become  so  bewitching, 
through  making  use  of  all  the  means  of  civilization, 
that  she  has  gained  the  upper  hand  over  man  by  this 
fascination  of  hers.  This  is  not  only  unjust,  but  pre- 
cisely the  reverse  of  the  truth.  It  is  not  the  childless 
woman  who  has  conquered  man,  but  the  mother,  that 
woman  who  has  fulfilled  her  law,  while  the  man  has 
not  fulfilled  his.  That  woman  who  deliberately  re- 
mains childless,  and  who  entrances  man  with  her 
shoulders  and  her  locks,  is  not  the  woman  who  rules 
over  men,  but  the  one  who  has  been  corrupted  by  man, 
who  has  descended  to  his  level,  —  to  the  level  of  the 
vicious  man,  —  who  has  evaded  the  law  equally  with 
himself,  and  who  has  lost,  in  company  with  him,  every 
rational  idea  of  life. 

From  this  error  springs  that  remarkable  piece  of 
stupidity  which  is  called  the  rights  of  women.  The 
formula  of  these  rights  of  women  is  as  follows : 
"Here!  you  man,"  says  the  woman,  "you  have  de- 
parted from  your  law  of  real  labor,  and  you  want  us 
to  bear  the  burden  of  our  real  labor.  No,  if  this 
is  to  be  so,  we  understand,  as  well  as  j^ou  do,  how  to 
perform  those  semblances  of  labor  which  you  exercise 


TO   WOMEN.  267 

in  banks,  ministries,  universities,  and  academies ;  we 
desire,  like  yourselves,  under  the  pretext  of  the  divis- 
ion of  labor,  to  make  use  of  the  labor  of  others,  and  to 
live  for  the  gratification  of  our  caprices  alone."  They 
say  this,  and  prove  by  their  action  that  they  understand 
no  worse,  if  not  better,  than  men,  how  to  exercise  this 
semblance  of  labor. 

This  so-called  woman  question  has  come  up,  and 
could  only  come  up,  among  men  who  have  departed 
from  the  law  of  actual  labor.  All  that  is  required  is,  to 
return  to  that,  and  this  question  cannot  exist.  Woman, 
having  her  own  inevitable  task,  will  never  demand  the 
right  to  share  the  toil  of  men  in  the  mines  and  in 
the  fields.  She  could  only  demand  to  share  in  the 
fictitious  labors  of  the  men  of  the  wealthy  classes. 

The  woman  of  our  circle  has  been,  and  still  is, 
stronger  than  the  man,  not  by  virtue  of  her  fascina- 
tions, not  through  her  cleverness  in  performing  the 
same  pharisaical  semblance  of  work  as  man,  but  be- 
cause she  has  not  stepped  out  from  under  the  law  that 
she  should  undergo  that  real  labor,  with  danger  to  her 
life,  with  exertion  to  the  last  degree,  from  which  the 
man  of  the  wealthy  classes  has  excused  himself. 

But,  within  my  memory,  a  departure  from  this  law 
on  the  part  of  woman,  that  is  to  say,  her  fall,  has 
begun ;  and,  within  my  memory,  it  has  become  more 
and  more  the  case.  Woman,  having  lost  the  law,  has 
acquired  the  belief  that  her  strength  lies  in  the  witch- 
ery of  her  charms,  or  in  her  skill  in  pharisaical  pre- 
tences at  intellectual  work.  And  both  things  are  bad 
for  the  children.  And,  within  my  memory,  women  of 
the  wealthy  classes  have  come  to  refuse  to  bear  chil- 
dren. And  so  mothers  who  hold  the  power  in  their 
hands  let  it  escape  them,  in  order  to  make  way  for  the 


268  WHAT  TO  DOf 

dissolute  women,  and  to  put  themselves  on  a  level  with 
them.  The  evil  is  already  wide-spread,  and  is  extend- 
ing farther  and  farther  eveiy  day ;  and  soon  it  will 
lay  hold  on  all  the  women  of  the  wealthy  classes,  and 
then  the}'  will  compare  themselves  with  men :  and  in 
company  with  them,  they  will  lose  the  rational  meaning 
of  life.     But  there  is  still  time. 

If  women  would  but  comprehend  their  destiny,  their 
power,  and  use  it  for  the  salv^ation  of  their  husbands, 
brothers,  and  children,  —  for  the  salvation  of  all  men ! 

Women  of  the  wealthy  classes  who  are  mothers,  the 
salvation  of  the  men  of  our  world  from  the  evils  from 
which  they  are  suffering,  lies  in  your  hands. 

Not  those  women  who  are  occupied  with  their  dainty 
figures,  with  their  bustles,  their  hair-dressing,  and  their 
attraction  for  men,  and  who  bear  children  against 
their  will,  with  despair,  and  hand  them  over  to  nurses ; 
nor  those  who  attend  various  courses  of  lectures,  and 
discourse  of  psychometric  centres  and  differentiation, 
and  who  also  endeavor  to  escape  bearing  children,  in 
order  that  it  may  not  interfere  with  their  folly  which 
they  call  culture :  but  those  women  and  mothers,  who, 
possessing  the  power  to  refuse  to  bear  children,  con- 
sciously and  in  a  straightforward  way  submit  to  this 
eternal,  unchangeable  law,  knowing  that  the  burden 
and  the  difficulty  of  such  submission  is  their  appointed 
lot  in  life,  —  these  are  the  women  and  mothers  of  our 
wealthy  classes,  in  whose  hands,  more  than  in  those  of 
any  one  else,  lies  the  salvation  of  the  men  of  our 
sphere  in  society  from  the  miseries  that  oppress  them. 

Ye  women  and  mothers  who  deliberately  submit 
yourselves  to  the  law  of  God,  you  alone  in  our 
wretched,  deformed  circle,  which  has  lost  the  sem- 
blance of  humanity,  you  alone  know  the  whole  of  the 


TO    WOMEN.  269 

real  meaning  of  life,  according  to  the  law  of  God  ;  and 
you  alone,  by  your  example,  can  demonstrate  to  people 
that  happiness  in  life,  in  submission  to  the  will  of  God, 
of  which  they  are  depriving  themselves.  You  alone 
know  those  raptures  and  those  joys  which  invade  the 
whole  being,  that  bliss  which  is  appointed  for  the  man 
who  does  not  depart  from  the  law  of  God.  You  know 
the  happiness  of  love  for  your  husbands,  —  a  happiness 
which  does  not  come  to  an  end,  wb^ch  does  not  break 
off  short,  like  all  other  forms  of  happiness,  and  which 
constitutes  the  beginning  of  a  new  happiness,  —  of 
love  for  3'our  child.  You  alone,  when  you  are  simple 
and  obedient  to  the  will  of  God,  know  not  that  farcical 
pretence  of  labor  which  the  men  of  our  circle  call 
work,  and  know  that  true  labor  imposed  b}'  God  on 
men,  and  know  its  true  rewards,  the  bliss  which  it 
confers.  You  know  this,  when,  after  the  raptures  of 
love,  you  await  with  emotion,  fear,  and  terror  that 
torturing  state  of  pregnancy  which  renders  you  ailing 
for  nine  months,  which  brings  you  to  the  yerge  of 
death,  and  to  intolerable  suffering  and  pain.  You 
know  the  conditions  of  true  labor,  when,  with  joy, 
you  await  the  approach  and  the  increase  of  the  most 
terrible  torture,  after  which  to  you  alone  comes  the 
bliss  which  you  well  know.  You  know  this,  when, 
immediately  after  this  torture,  without  respite,  without 
a  break,  you  undertake  another  series  of  toils  and 
sufferings,  —  nursing,  —  in  which  process  you  at  one 
and  the  same  time  deny  j^ourselves,  and  subdue  to  your 
feelings  the  very  strongest  human  need,  that  of  sleep, 
which,  as  the  proverb  says,  is  dearer  than  father  or 
mother;  and  for  months  and  years  you  never  get  a 
single  sound,  unbroken  night's  rest,  and  sometimes, 
nay,  often,  you  do  not  sleep  at  all  for  a  period  of 


270  WHAT  TO  not 

several  nights  in  succession,  but  with  failing  arms  you 
walk  alone,  hushing  the  sick  child  who  is  breaking 
your  heart.  And  when  you  do  all  this,  applauded  by 
no  one,  and  expecting  no  praises  for  it  from  any  one, 
nor  any  reward,  —  when  you  do  this,  not  as  an  heroic 
deed,  but  like  the  laborer  in  the  Gospel  when  he  came 
from  the  field,  considering  that  you  have  done  only 
that  which  was  your  duty,  then  you  know  what  the 
false,  pretentious  labor  of  men  performed  for  glory 
really  is,  and  that  true  labor  is  fulfilling  the  will  of 
God,  whose  command  you  feel  in  3'our  heart.  You 
know  that  if  you  are  a  true  mother  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence tliat  no  one  has  seen  your  toil,  that  no  one  has 
praised  you  for  it,  but  that  it  has  only  been  looked 
upon  as  what  must  needs  be  so,  and  that  even  those 
for  whom  you  have  labored  not  only  do  not  thank  you, 
but  often  torture  and  reproach  you.  And  with  the 
next  child  you  do  the  same:  again  you  suffer,  again 
you  undergo  the  fearful,  invisible  labor ;  and  again  you 
expect  no  reward  from  any  one,  and  yet  you  feel  the 
same  satisfaction. 

If  you  are  like  this,  you  will  not  say  after  two  chil- 
dren, or  after  twenty,  that  you  have  done  enough,  just 
as  the  laboring  man  fifty  years  of  age  will  not  say 
that  he  has  worked  enough,  while  he  still  continues  to 
eat  and  to  sleep,  and  while  his  muscles  still  demand 
work ;  if  you  are  like  this,  you  will  not  cast  the  task 
of  nursing  and  care-taking  upon  some  other  mother, 
just  as  a  laboring  man  will  not  give  another  man  the 
work  which  he  has  begun,  and  almost  completed,  to 
finish :  because  into  this  work  you  will  throw  your  life. 
And  therefore  the  more  there  is  of  this  work,  the  fuller 
and  the  happier  is  your  life. 

And  whan  you  are  like  this,  for  the  good  fortune  of 


TO    WOMEN.  271 

men,  you  will  apply  that  law  of  fulfilling  God's  will, 
by  which  you  guide  your  life,  to  the  lives  of  your  hus- 
band, of  your  children,  and  of  those  most  nearly  con- 
nected with  you.  If  you  are  like  this,  and  know  from 
your  own  experience,  that  only  self-sacrificing,  unseen, 
unrewarded  labor,  accompanied  with  danger  to  life  and 
to  the  extreme  bounds  of  endurance,  for  the  lives  of 
others,  is  the  appointed  lot  of  man,  which  affords  him 
satisfaction,  then  you  will  announce  these  demands  to 
others ;  you  will  urge  your  husband  to  the  same  toil ; 
and  you  will  measure  and  value  the  dignity  of  men 
according  to  this  toil ;  and  for  this  toil  you  will  also 
prepare  your  children. 

Only  that  mother  who  looks  upon  children  as  a  dis- 
agreeable accident,  and  upon  love,  the  comforts  of  life, 
culture,  and  society,  as  the  object  of  life,  will  rear  her 
children  in  such  a  manner  that  they  shall  have  as  much 
enjoyment  as  possible  out  of  life,  and  that  they  shall 
make  the  greatest  possible  use  of  it ;  onl}^  she  will 
feed  them  luxuriously,  deck  them  out,  amuse  them 
artificially  ;  only  she  will  teach  them,  not  that  which 
will  fit  them  for  self-sacrificing  masculine  or  feminine 
labor  with  danger  of  their  lives,  and  to  the  last  limits 
of  endurance,  but  that  which  will  deliver  them  from  this 
labor.  Only  such  a  woman,  who  has  lost  the  meaning 
of  her  life,  will  sympathize  with  that  delusive  and 
false  male  labor,  by  means  of  which  her  husband, 
having  Kid  himself  of  the  obligations  of  a  man,  is 
enabled  to  enjo}',  in  her  company,  the  work  of  others. 
Only  such  a  woman  will  choose  a  similai*  man  for  the 
husband  of  her  daughter,  and  will  estimate  men,  not 
by  what  thej^  are  personally,  but  by  that  which  is  con- 
nected with  them,  —  position,  money,  or  their  ability 
to  take  advantaiJ:e  of  the  labor  of  others. 


272  WHAT  TO  DO? 

But  the  true  mother,  who  actually  knows  the  will  of 
God,  will  fit  her  children  to  fulfil  it  also.  For  such  a 
mother,  to  see  her  child  overfed,  enervated,  decked  out, 
"will  mean  suffering ;  for  all  this,  as  she  well  knows, 
will  render  difiScult  for  him  the  fulfilment  of  the  law 
of  God  in  which  she  has  instructed  him.  Such  a 
mother  will  teach,  not  that  which  will  enable  her  son 
and  her  daughter  to  rid  themselves  of  labor,  but  that 
which  will  help  them  to  endure  the  toils  of  life.  She 
will  have  no  need  to  inquire  what  she  shall.teach  her 
children,  for  what  she  shall  prepare  them.  Such  a 
woman  will  not  only  not  encourage  her  husband  to 
false  and  delusive  labor,  which  has  but  one  object, 
that  of  using  the  labors  of  others ;  but  she  will  bear 
herself  with  disgust  and  horror  towards  such  an  em- 
ployment, which  serves  as  a  double  temptation  to  her 
children.  Such  a  woman  will  not  choose  a  husband 
for  her  daughter  on  account  of  the  whiteness  of  his 
hands  and  the  refinement  of  manner ;  but,  well  aware 
that  labor  and  deceit  will  exist  always  and  everywhere, 
she  will,  beginning  with  her  husband,  respect  and  value 
in  men,  and  will  require  from  them,  real  labor,  with 
expenditure  and  risk  of  life,  and  she  will  despise  that 
deceptive  labor  which  has  for  its  object  the  ridding 
one's  self  of  all  true  toil. 

Such  a  mother,  who  brings  forth  children  and  nurses 
them,  and  will  herself,  rather  than  any  other,  feed  her 
offspring  and  prepare  their  food,  and  sew,  and  wash, 
and  teach  her  children,  and  sleep  and  talk  with  them, 
because  in  this  she  grounds  the  business  of  her  life,  — 
only  such  a  mother  will  not  seek  for  her  children  ex- 
ternal guaranties  in  the  form  of  her  husband's  money, 
and  the  children's  diplomas ;  but  she  will  rear  them 
to  that  same  capacity  for  the  self-sacrificing  fulfilment 


TO    WOMEN.  273 

of  the  will  of  God  which  she  is  conscious  of  herself 
possessing, —  a  capacit}'  for  enduring  toil  with  expend- 
iture and  risk  of  life,  —  because  she  knows  that  in  this 
lies  the  sole  guaranty,  and  the  only  well-being  in  life. 
Such  a  mother  will  not  ask  other  people  what  she  ought 
to  do  ;  she  will  know  every  thing,  and  will  fear  nothing. 

If  there  can  exist  any  doubt  for  the  man  and  for  the 
childless  woman,  as  to  the  path  in  which  the  fulfilment 
of  the  will  of  God  lies,  this  path  is  firmly  and  clearly 
defined  for  the  woman  who  is  a  mother ;  and  if  she 
has  complied  with  it  in  submissiveness  and  in  simpli- 
city of  spirit,  she,  standing  on  that  loftiest  height  of 
bliss  which  the  human  being  is  permitted  to  attain, 
will  become  a  guiding-star  for  all  men  who  are  seeking 
good.  Only  the  mother  can  calmly  say  before  her 
death,  to  Him  who  sent  her  into  this  world,  and  to  Him 
.whom  she  has  served  by  bearing  and  rearing  children 
more  dear  than  herself,  — only  she  can  say  calmly,  hav- 
ing served  Him  who  has  imposed  this  service  upon  her : 
'*  Now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace."  And 
this  is  the  highest  perfection,  towards  which,  as  towards 
the  highest  bliss,  men  are  striving. 

Such  are  the  women,  who,  having  fulfilled  their  des- 
tiny, reign  over  powerful  men  ;  such  are  the  women 
who  prepare  the  new  generations  of  people,  and  fix 
public  opinion:  and,  therefore,  in  the  hands  of  these 
women  lies  the  highest  power  of  saving  men  from  the 
prevailing  and  threatening  evils  of  our  times. 

Yes,  ye  women  and  mothers,  in  your  hands,  more 
than  in  those  of  all  others,  lies  the  salvation  of  the 
world ! 


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that  in  this  rustic  curi  we  had  once  more  come  across  that  rara  avis  of  hu- 
manity, an  individual  soul.  Who  woula  have  dreamed  that  the  philosophical 
communings  of  a  Catholic  priest  should,  in  these  days  of  wide  and  enlightened 
thought,  be  able  to  arouse  the  faintest  interest  outside  the  narrow  community  of 
faithtul  souls  for  whose  benefit  we  might  suppose  they  had  been  penned?  Vet, 
once  again,  the  strange  is  the  true.  These  '•  Thoughts,"  not  one  of  which  the 
worthy  priest's  parishioners  could  either  read  or  understand,  have  caused  a  per- 
fect excitement  of  enthusiasm  in  France  among  thinkers  the  most  various. 
M.  Caro,  the  painter  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  Renan  himself,  nay,  even  the  great 

f>riest-hater,  Francisque  Sarcey,  —  all  with  one  accord  have  done  homage  to  the 
ittle  book  whose  richness  of  first-hand  thoughts  {idees  meres,  as  the  French  call 
them  in  their  happy  idiom)  have  equally  charmed  and  amazed  them.  They  have 
not  even  hesitated  to  name  their  author  in  one  breath  with  those  great  French- 
men who  have  achieved  immortality  in  that  walk  of  literature  which  seems 
specially  suited  to  the  genius  of  the  trench.     .     .    ,    . 

The  author  of  these  "  Pensees,"  as  we  have  said,  is  an  unknown  man,  a  parish 
priest,  and  is  no  longer  young.  He  had  just  touched  his  fiftieth  year  when  his 
work  was  put  forth  to  the  world,  —  put  forth  almost  against  his  will,  certainly 
without  his  aid.  But  for  an  accident,  the  Abbe  Roux  might  have  been  numbered 
among  the  "  mute  inglorious  Miltons,"  to  whom  the  world  perchance  owes  more 
than  it  wots.  An  accident  made  famous  the  man  who,  but  for  this,  would  prob- 
ably have  gone  down  to  his  grave  unhonored  and  unknown. 

It  was  the  centenary  of  Petrarch,  held  in  1S74,  that  first  called  Roux  into 
notice, — a  festival  celebrated  in  southern  France  by  the  Felibres,  that  society 
for  the  promotion  and  revival  of  Provengal  poetry,  of  which  Mistral  is  the  out- 
come and  to  the  present  time  the  chief  glory.  M.  Paul  Marieton,  himself  a  young 
Felibre,  a  poet  in  P'rench  and  Provencal,  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Abb^ 
Roux,  and,  struck  with  his  work  in  dialect,  sought  to  gain  closer  intimacy  with 
the  author.  He  unearthed  h!m  one  day  in  his  retired  nest.  "  He  appeared  to 
me,"  says  Marieton,  "  like  one  of  the  Limousin  giants  of  his  '  Gcste  de  Charle- 
magne,'with  his  strong,  square  frame,  his  deep  bass  voice.  His  visage,  large  and 
tender,  sweet  and  yet  rough-hewn,  resembled  that  of  those  English  lords  of  Henry 
VIII. 's  time,  —  Northern  colossi,  painted  by  Holbein.  With  the  gentleness  of  a 
child  and  a  poet,  he  showed  me  the  simplicity  of  his  life;  and  I  departed  more 
moved  than  I  can  express."  ....  It  was  during  this  visit  from  the  ardent 
youno^  Felibre  that  the  Abba  Roux  diffidently  confided  to  him  a  large  number  of, 
copy-Dooks,  written  in  a  mighty  firm  hand,  —  a  hand  that  would  delight  graph- 
ologists,—  in  which  were  put  down  the  mile-stones  of  thought,  marking  the  way 
traversed  by  this  lonely  minister  of  God  during  his  twenty-five  years  of  isolated 
life.  Delighted,  M.  Marieton  at  once  proposed  to  publish  a  selection.  At  first 
the  Abbe  demurred.  "  You  would  publish  my  '  Pensees,'  "  he  said.  "  Beware! 
I  am  not  independent  enough  to  seek  calumny,  for  I  am  not  an  individual,  but  a 
legion ;  and  the  good  Abbe  Roux  will  bear  the  mountain  of  prejudice  that  weighs 
on  the  clergy  of  all  times,  and  above  all  of  this  time.  Prudence,  my  friend. 
You  would  have  me  think  that  I  shall  become  a  personage.  I  can  scarcely  hope 
it.  I  shall  always  be  an  immured.  With  a  proud  and  timid  character,  one 
never  arrives  at  anything."  But  M.  Marieton  did  not  let  himself  be  deterred; 
and  to-day  the  world  can  decide  whether  he  did  well  or  not  to  drag  forth  *^is 
priest  from  his  lonely  obscurity.  —  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 

T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.,  13  Astor  Place,  N«w  York. 


"The  demand  for  these  Russian  stories  has  but  just  fairly  begun;  but  it  is  a  literary 
movement  more  widespread,  more  intense,  than  anything  this  country  has  probably  seen 
within  the  past  quarter  of  a  century  ^  —  Boston  Traveller. 


CRIME  AND  PUNISHMENT. 

By  FEODOR  M.  DOSTOIEVSKY. 

xamo.    $1.50. 


*'  The  readers  of  Turg^nief  and  of  Tolstoi  must  now  add  Dostoyevsky  to  their  list,  if 
they  wish  to  understand  the  reasons  for  the  supremacy  of  the  Russians  in  nrodem 
fiction." — IV.  D.  Howells,  in  Harper'' s  Monthly  for  September. 

"There  are  three  Russian  novelists  who,  though  with  one  exception  little  known  out  of 
their  own  country,  stand  head  and  shoulders  above  most  of  their  contemporaries.  In  the 
opinion  of  some  not  indifferent  critics  they  are  superior  to  all  other  novelists  of  this 
generation.  Two  of  them — Dostoyevsky  and  Turg^nief  —  died  not  long  ago;  the  third  — 
Leon  Tolstoi — still  lives.  The  one  with  the  most  marked  individuality  of  character, 
probably  the  most  highly  gifted,  was  unquestionably  Feodor  'Do^XoyewsV.y.''^  —  Spectator. 

**  Outside  Russia  the  name  of  Fe6dor  Dostoyevsky  was  till  lately  almost  unknown.  Yet 
Dostoyevsky  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  modern  writers,  and  his  book  — '  Crime  and 
Punishment '  —  is  one  of  the  most  moving  of  modern  novels.  It  is  a  story  of  a  murder 
and  of  the  punishment  which  dogs  the  murderer ;  and  its  effect  is  unique  in  fiction.  It  is 
realism,  but  such  realism  as  M.  Zola  and  his  followers  do  not  dream  of.  The  reader 
knows  the  personages  —  strange,  grotesque,  terrible  personages  they  are  —  more  intimately 
than  if  he  had  been  years  with  them  in  the  flesh.  He  is  constrained  to  live  their  lives,  to 
suffer  their  torture,  to  scheme  and  resist  with  them,  exult  with  them,  weep  and  laugh  and 
despair  with  them ;  he  breathes  the  very  breath  of  their  nostrils,  and  with  the  madness 
that  comes  upon  them  he  is  afflicted  even  as  they.  This  sounds  extravagant  praise,  no 
doubt ;  but  only  to  those  who  have  not  read  the  volume.  To  those  who  have,  we  are  sure 
that  it  will  appear  rather  under  the  mark  than  otherwise. 

"  Every  one  has  read  the  pages  in  which  Dickens  has  dealt  with  the  murder  of  Montague 
Tigg  and  the  agony  of  Jonas  Chuzzlewii.  The  effect  of  '  Crime  and  Punishment '  is  evea 
more  poignant  and  devouring.  To  analyze  the  work  in  detail  is  manifestly  impossible. 
Every  incident  —  and  there  are  many  —  is  worthy  of  comment;  every  character — and 
there  is  at  least  a  dozen — would  furnish  the  matter  of  a  long  discourse.  All  we  can  do  in 
this  place  is  to  remark  upon  the  strange  completeness  of  the  book  as  a  work  of  art ;  to 
describe,  however  imperfectly  and  inadequately,  the  extraordinary  nature  of  its  peculiar 
quality  and  the  incomparable  potency  of  its  peculiar  effect ;  and  to  note  that,  in  spite  of  its 
sordid  subject  and  the  sense  of  grinding  misery  which  informs  it  throughout,  its  teaching  is 
in  the  main  ennobling  and  good.  It  is  absolutely  non-political ;  and,  if  we  accept  it  as  a 
tnie  picture,  —  and  apparently  we  have  no  choice,  —  it  is  the  best  and  fullest  explaoatioa 
of  Nihilism  in  existence." — The  Athenceum. 


THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO., 

13  ASTOR  PLACE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  PENALTA. 

(MART A  Y  MARIA,) 

By  DON  ARMANDO   PALACIO  VALDES. 

i2mo.    $1.50. 


"  The  literature  is  delightful :  full  of  charming  humor,  tender  pathos,  the  liveliest 
sympathy  with  nature,  the  keenest  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  a  style 
whose  charm  makes  itself  felt  through  the  shadows  of  a  strange  speech.  It 
is  the  story  of  two  sisters, — daughters  of  the  chief  family  in  a  Spanish  seaport 
city:  Maria,  who  passes  from  the  romance  of  literature  to  the  romance  of  religion, 
and  abandons  home,  father,  and  lover  to  become  the  spouse  of  heaven ;  and  Marta, 
who  remains  to  console  all  these  for  her  loss.  We  do  not  remember  a  character 
more  finelv  studied  than  that  of  Maria,  who  is  followed,  not  satirically  or  ironically,  r 
through  all  the  involutions  of  a  conscious,  artificial  personality,  but  with  masterly 
divination,  and  is  shown  as  essentially  cold-hearted  and  selfish  in  her  religious 
abnegation,  and  as  sensuous  in  her  spiritual  ecstasies  as  she  was  in  her  abandon  to  the 
romances  on  which  she  first  fed  her  egoistic  fancy.  But  Marta  —  Marta  is  delicious! 
We  see  her  first  as  an  awkward  girl  of  thirteen  at  her  mother's  tertulia,  helplessly 
laughing  at  some  couples  who  give  a  few  supererogatory  hops  in  the  dance  after  the 
music  suddenly  stops;  and  the  note  of  friendly  simplicity,  of  joyous,  frank,  sweet 
naturalness,  struck  in  the  beginning,  is  felt  in  her  character  throughout.  Nothing 
could  be  lovelier  than  the  portrayal  of  this  girl's  affection  for  her  father  and  mother, 
and  of  the  tenderness  that  insensibly  grows  up  between  her  and  her  sister's  lover,  left 
step  by  step  in  the  lurch  by  the  intending  bride  of  heaven.  One  of  the  uses  of  realism 
is  to  make  us  know  people ;  to  make  us  understand  that  the  Spaniards,  for  example, 
are  not  the  remote  cloak-and-sword  gentry  of  opera  which  romance  has  painted  them, 
abounding  in  guitars,  poniards,  billets,  aufos-da-fe^  and  confessionals,  but  are  as  'like 
folks'  as  we  are.  It  seems  that  there  is  much  of  that  freedom  among  young  people 
with  them  which  makes  youth  a  heavenly  holiday  in  tliese  favored  States.  Maria's 
lover  has  'the  run  of  the  house,'  in  this  Spanish  town,  quite  as  he  would  have  in 
Chicago  or  Portland,  and  he  follows  Marta  about  in  the  frequent  intervals  of  Maria's 
neglect ;  he  makes  her  give  him  lunch  fn  the  kitchen  when  he  is  hungry,  this  very 
human  young  Marquis  de  Penalta;  he  helps  her  tb  make  a  pie  — the  young  lady  hav- 
ing a  passion  for  all  domestic  employments  —  and  to  put  away  the  clean  clothes.  Her 
father  —  Don  Mariano  Elorza* — has  a  passion  for  the  smell  of  freshly  ironed  linen, 
much  as  any  well-domesticated  American  citizen  might  have,  and  loves  to  go  and  put 
his  nose  in  the  closets  where  it  hangs.  His  wife  has  been  a  tedious,  complaining 
invalid  all  her  married  life,  but  he  is  heart-broken  when  she  dies;  and  it  is  at  this 
moment  that  Maria  —  who  has  compromised  him  in  the  Carlist  movement  because  that 
is  the  party  of  the  Church,  and  has  tried  in  the  same  cause  to  make  her  lover  turn 
traitor  to  the  government  which  he  has  sworn  as  citizen  and  soldier  to  defend  —  comes, 
ecstatic  from  the  death-scene  to  ask  his  permission  to  complete  her  vocation  in  the  con-' 
vent.  He  gives  it  with  a  sort  of  disdain  for  her  pitiless  and  senseless  egotism.  The 
story  closes  with  the  happy  love  of  Marta  and  Ricardo,  clasped  to  the  old  man's 
breast,  and  mingling  their  tears  with  his ;  and  the  author  cries,  '  O  eternal  God,  who 
dwellest  in  the  hearts  of  the  good,  can  it  be  that  these  tears  are  less  grateful  to  Thee 
than  the  mystical  colloquies  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Bernard?' 

"  A  sketch  of  the  story  gives  no  idea  of  its  situations,  or,  what  is  more  difficult  and 
important,  the  atmosphere  of  reality  in  which  it  moves.  The  whole  social  life  of  the 
quiet  town  is  skilfully  suggested,  and  an  abundance  of  figures  pass  before  us,  all 
graphically  drawn,  none  touched  with  weakness  or  exaggeration." 

~W.  D.  Howells,  m  Harper's  Monthly, 


T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.,  13  Astor  Place,  New  York. 


*^  -  -'%  FOURTEEN  DAY  USE  ,   .   , 

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